Gone Wylde 04: Unsettled
by Concolor44
Summary: Has Wendy found something real with Conner von Trapp? Is Karl just going to give up on her? What will happen with Martin and Samantha? And how do the Purebreds figure into all of this? Read and find out.
1. Interlude

**_Gone Wylde_**

**_Book 4:_**

**_Unsettled_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_Interlude_**

##

Lawrence sauntered into the office from the equipment room and flipped a small circuit board end-over-end to land with a clatter on my recently-acquired replacement desk.

"There ya go!"

I picked it up. "Here I go, what?"

"That's the problem. Tertiary parallel processor controlling the access code encryption subsystem was picking up intermittent noise from the dimensional interface monitor. Karl must have discovered the anomaly and exploited it. He's not an idiot, you know."

"Uh-huh. But you're making me feel like one."

He just grinned.

I examined the board, turning it over a couple of times. "So is it fixed?"

"Aw, for … !" Eyes rolling, he shook his head. "You think I'd leave it vulnerable?"

"Well … no. But could you explain why it happened and what can be done to prevent it from happening again? In English, this time?"

"You went to the same engineering school I did."

"Yeah, but you paid attention. Besides, you're the Double-Fudd electronics whiz. I'm just the lowly BME."

"What you mean is, you're the one with the literary connections. I'm just the independent contractor who keeps you hooked up with your creation."

"Whatever."

"And it won't fink out on you again."

"Oh. Well. Good. Uh … how come? Words of few syllables, please."

He pointed at the board. "That one has a defect in the sub-etheric nano-shielding. The replacement is perfect. I ran a complete diagnostic on it. And I ran a thorough check on the rest of the systems while I was in there. You got no worries, mate!"

"So I can turn it back on?"

He shrugged. "It wouldn't do you much good just sitting there all dark and gloomy, would it?"

"Okay, okay! You made your point." I went over to the open panel in the wall and threw the master switch to the Portal. The old, familiar, nearly-subsonic hum was music to my ears.

I turned back to him, a grin jumping into place. "Thanks, Lawrence."

"Hey, what good is underpaid genius if you can't make an old friend smile?" He waved and slid out the other door, the one to the hall. "Later!"

"Later."

By the time I got back to my desk, the Port Request light was already blinking. I looked at the code, smiled even more broadly, and tapped the ACCEPT button.

About five seconds later, Wendy opened the door, glanced around, and came over to my desk, snagging a chair for herself on the way.

I found it difficult to stop myself from staring. The sleek, tight, low-cut emerald-green mini-dress she wore was more daring than anything she'd had on, any time I'd ever seen her before. By rather a lot. Plus, she had her hair down, which made quite a statement in and of itself.

She swung the chair around in front of her, its back to me, and straddled it. I was very careful to maintain eye contact.

Flopping her chin down onto her crossed forearms on the back of the chair, she asked, "Whatsch th' big idea, huh? Whatcha got Mart'n all bunged up inna 'ospital for ennyw-hic … ennyw-hic … ennyway for, huh?"

My mouth fell open. Wendy, drunk? Whoa! She must have drained most of her stock.

_**Well … um … Have you seen Martin recently?**_

She gazed at me owlishly as her brow slowly furrowed. "Whatcha mea-_hic_ … mean?"

_**I mean have you seen him in the last few days? Since his operation?**_

She blinked a few times, trying to focus both her eyes on my face at the same time. "I seen 'im las' wee-_hic_ … las' week. Thueswizd'y – uh – think it uz Toozdy."

_**Then you haven't heard yet about his remarkable recovery.**_

"Whashat?"

_**He has full use of his paws. They're just fine. His bullet wound and dislocated shoulders are healed. His burns are nearly healed, as is his broken leg. He'll be going home very soon.**_

I waited while this information percolated through the alcohol-induced haze. She stared at a spot on my desk for several long moments, then snapped her gaze back up to my face. The sudden motion evidently made her dizzy: she gripped the back of the chair with both pa – um, that is, both hands to keep herself more or less vertical.

"Sho … sho whatsch 'e gonna do?"

I don't follow you.

"Izzy gonna back inna Shop? Wid Karl?"

_**I would think so.**_

"Wahl, I'll be damn'! Donnit beat all!"

_**If he has any other intentions, he hasn't shared them with me.**_

"Sunnembitch. Gonna go af-_hic_ … go after ones 'at dunnit?"

That really isn't Martin's style. They're all in custody anyway, and actually, he's already forgiven them. You know that part about 'Bless those that curse you. Do good to those who persecute you.'? He takes that pretty seriously.

"Don' gimme none that crap. Buncha bullshit."

_**Martin doesn't think so.**_

"Yeah, an' see where it got 'im. 'Bout dead. Woulda been dead, 'f Mist-_hic_ … Con-_hic_ … 'at guide fella hannent showed up."

_**Granted. But Martin has a strong faith.**_

"Hmph. So'd m' Dad." She got up unsteadily and came around to lean over my desk. She reached out one hand and grabbed the front of my shirt. "Jus' you see it don' hap'n again, Bucko. 'R ya'll answer t' me."

Her breath smelled like a distillery on a hot afternoon. I leaned my head back and disengaged her grip from my shirt, encouraging her to sit back down, which she did.

_**You might want to talk to Martin about that. But I think first that you ought to go back home and get some sleep. You, um, look tired.**_

She crossed her arms again and pouted. "Don' wanna go home."

_**You mean you'd rather stay here? Without your fur?**_

" … Fur? I got …" She paused in thought, then looked at one of her arms. She rubbed a hand over the smooth inner surface of her forearm and grimaced in distaste. "Crap. F'got 'bout that. Yuck."

_**So why don't you head back to the Inn and rest a while, then go talk to Martin. He'll be in the hospital for two or three more days, tops.**_

"Yeah. Do that. Will. G'bye." She got up and lurched for the door to the Portal, opening it in only three tries. "See ya."

Good day.

The indicator light turned from yellow to green as her destination popped up on the flat screen: Ash Creek Inn, second floor, rear balcony

I sat for a minute, chin in hand, considering that brief exchange. Then I reached out and flipped the Port Request channel to "BUSY". This was going to take some thought, and I didn't really need to be disturbed.

##


	2. Chapter 1 Comfort Zone  Part A

**_Chapter One – Is It A Long-Distance Call to My Comfort Zone?_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**My sources are unreliable, but their information is fascinating. **

_**- Ashleigh Brilliant**_

##

_** Friday 07 October 2016, 5:10pm **_

Ellen answered the door in full livery, complete with floppy hat and floppier feather. She swept a low bow and intoned, "Milord! Milady! Welcome to The Manor!"

The chipmunk couple on the porch "came all over grins" as the saying goes in those parts. They tiptoed a few steps in and stopped, eyes large, as they took everything in. The femme chipmunk put an arm around her husband's waist and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Oh, Jamie, this is perfect!"

He nodded. "You're right there, Kaye." He took a deep breath as he studied the parquet flooring. "Didn't know I had such good taste."

That made his wife laugh. Ellen said, "If thou wouldst follow me, Good Sir, I will conduct thee to thy chamber. And worry not over thy parcels. They will be sent up anon."

"Wonderful! Just wonderful! Yes, please, lead the way." And trailing behind the slender mink, they made their way up the stairs.

##

_** 5:45pm **_

Wendy met the next guest herself, a Ms. Hughrena Werminn. She was a mixed-breed terrier of early middle age, definitely part pinscher, and all bad attitude. She'd informed Wendy, when the vixen asked her for a credcard number to secure her reservation, that only fools used those things. She would be paying in cash, and considered it an insult that anyone would doubt her word on the matter.

She brought but a single bag: a large, worn duffel thrown over her shoulder. As they walked from the foyer to the Green Room, the one, solitary, complete sentence Wendy could elicit was, "I'll be in my room … _writing_ … all weekend, and I expect to be left alone."

Thinking, "_No worries on __my__ account, lady_," Wendy maintained a neutral expression as she replied, "I'll see to it, ma'am."

Her guest passed her a short stack of currency, and then quickly slipped into the chamber and closed the door in Wendy's face.

"Hmh." The vixen counted the bills, turned and padded back downstairs. _Fine by me. You wanna sulk by yourself all weekend, and pay me three-and-a-half for the privilege, I __totally__ have no problem with that._

It was only a few minutes later that the last guests arrived. They were here for their third stay in six weeks, and Wendy and Ellen greeted them both warmly. The mink cried, "Marvla! Ed! You two look as bright as new pennies! What's your secret?"

The aged badger couple smiled in return, and Marvla patted Ellen's cheek with a withered paw. "You're so sweet. Such kind words."

Grinning, Wendy shook her head. "We're serious about being delighted to have you. Visiting on the rear porch with you two is always a treat." She waved a paw in the general direction of the kitchen. "I've got a lemon meringue pie that's probably cool enough to eat now if you're interested."

Ed's eyes lit at that. "We did have a light supper. Didn't we, Mother?"

"That we did. Lead on, young lady!"

And shortly they proved that their supper must have been very light indeed.

##

_** Saturday 08 October 2016, 8:46am **_

For the fourth time, the sylvan scene paraded across the huge, flat monitor. As the vixen twirled in the falling leaves, the frame froze, capturing her lovely face perfectly. Capra stalked up to the screen and jabbed a stubby finger at it. "Try ta tell _me_ dat ain't Rho!"

Rajid shook his head emphatically. "Phoebe Reynard is dead, Leonard. That is what drove Gulo over the edge. Surely you, of all furs, remember that detail?"

"Yeah," he muttered, scowling darkly. "Dat's wat we t'ought about Gulo, too." He cast a lowering glance at the large wolverine in the background of the shot. "Ya ast me, dat's jist too much of a coincidence. Wit' bot' of 'em t'gedda like dat? Please!"

Wayne spoke up. "Trina's tracking down the camera-fur for this web sequence. She left about …" He pulled out his watch. "… thirty-six minutes ago. _Vermont_ magazine is headquartered over east of Montpelier, near Barre. She and Katherine should be there in three hours."

"Hmm …" Hemanth Rajid's brow furrowed as he slipped into a brown study. Wayne checked through his notes again. Still muttering his dire predictions, Capra walked over to the sideboard and poured himself another cup of the steaming tar that passed for coffee when he made it. Foxworth trotted back into the room with a thick sheaf of printouts, and laid them on the table before Rajid. The mongoose looked up at them, then at his subordinate, and sighed. "It is a pity that I did not direct my helicopter to remain grounded overnight. They would have arrived at the magazine much sooner."

"Ehn. I don' t'ink a couple hours one way or da udda's gonna make one damn bit o' diff'rence. Not dis late in da game."

Rajid gave Capra a jaundiced glare. "One never knows, though, does one?"

"What I know damn good is dat Gulo's layin' low. He ain't done one fuckin' t'ing we c'n track. Not even a ghost of a hint. Yeah, we bot' know he's up ta sumpn, an' it'll prob'ly be a shit-pot full when it goes down. But we ain't even sure he's still hangin' heah. Could be cuttin' up a rug in Rio f'r all we know."

The mongoose drummed his fingers on the table. "We must act upon the assumption that he will remain in the northeast. Otherwise, there is no point in pursuing our current operational parameters." He made a fist and bopped the tabletop. "I _wish_ a wider search criterion had been used in the first iteration! We would have made this discovery three days ago, at least!"

"An' da woild ain't stopped spinnin' yet, Raj." He repositioned his cigar and gave his superior a shrug. "We'll get 'im. Might take a while, but we'll get 'im. Don' worry."

##

_** 11:48am **_

"That's it!" Trina pointed at a brick office building to their right. "Number 4819. And there's the sign: _Vermont_ Magazine."

Katherine Malama guided the low sedan into the drive alongside the building and parked in one of the 'Visitor' slots. Trina, impatient, nearly tripped over her own feet getting out. She gave her Husky companion a look of distaste when she snickered, then straightened her skirt and stalked over to the building's front door with as much dignity as she could muster.

They had learned that the headquarters was staffed seven days a week. The management had instituted rolling six-hour shifts, and let the workers pick which ones they wanted (within reason) which meant that they never experienced a mass exodus because there was no single slot that could be pegged as 'quitting time'. Furs came and went every two hours most of the day and night. Some of the employees only worked three or four shifts a week. Some worked as many as nine or ten. But it seemed to be a successful enterprise, if the plush lobby was any indication. The ceiling was at least five meters over their heads, a cool, light-blue dome illuminated by indirect lighting. On the left as they entered, a miniature rainforest thrived, while the opposite wall was composed of a suspended sheet of glass, and had a thin film of water cascading down its surface to drip in a continuous line onto a series of copper pipes of varying length and diameter. The effect was quite musical and quite charming.

Padding over the dense carpet, they approached the long desk and gave their credentials to the rabbit doe at the receptionist's station. Her eyebrows rose slightly as she looked over the papers, but she gave no other sign of surprise. Mentally, Trina gave her a mark in her favor.

"Very well. How can I help you?"

"We'd like to speak with Mr. Jedediah Frosst."

"I'll page him for you." She tapped a few numbers into her phone. In about fifteen seconds it rang her back. She lifted the pawset and said, "Yes, sir. Two agents from the ISB here to speak with you." She listened a bit, glanced up at them, and then replied, "No, sir, just two in plainclothes." A furtive smile was quickly suppressed. "No, sir, none in evidence. But I'll ask." She held the phone away from her face and (with an impressive amount of control over her dimple factor) said, "He wants to know if you'd like to shoot him now, or shoot him later, after the torture. He said he'd prefer now, as he has a low pain threshold."

Both agents laughed at that. Katherine said, "I think we'll get along just fine with Mr. Frosst. Tell him not to worry about getting shot. At least, not in the next half hour or so."

"Thank you, miss." She passed the message verbatim, listened briefly, said, "I'll tell them," and hung up. "He'll be right out. He's back in the printing area."

"So you still do print copies of the magazine? I thought you were completely web-based?"

"The magazine is. We print tourism pamphlets, maps, posters, that sort of thing. Actually, the poster business is almost as lucrative as the advertising we get for the webzine."

"Huh!" responded Katherine. "I wouldn't have thought so."

When Mr. Frosst showed up, both agents stared. He was a Tasmanian Devil. And a very old one, at that. He came right over and held his paw out. "Jedediah Frosst. What can I do you for?"

It wasn't as if neither of them had ever seen a Tasmanian Devil before. They were able to recognize him, after all. But it was common knowledge that the reclusive marsupials hardly ever left their homeland. And here he was, on the other side of the world, running a major webzine! It was a novel experience, to say the least.

They shook his paw, then Trina said, "Could we go back to your office and chat a bit?"

"What about?"

"Your October issue."

"Oh, darn! You found that editorial in favor of sedition, didn't you?"

"… ummm …"

"Just kidding! We didn't put that in. We haven't had time yet to copy it down off the bathroom wall."

"_Bathroom wall?"_

"Kidding! Kidding! Jeez, can't you two take a joke?"

"Uh, sure." Katherine turned to the rabbit, aimed a thumb at the elder fur, and asked, "Is he always like this?"

She never cracked a smile, but her eyes couldn't help twinkling just a bit. "Nah. Sometimes he can be really hard to put up with."

"Love you too, Dale." Mr. Frosst blew her a kiss. Facing the agents, he jerked his head at the door he'd come out of and said, "Office this way." And he trotted off.

Katherine and Trina followed. Once they all got settled, the hedgehog femme asked about the homepage sequence.

The old marsupial leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers across his chest. "Well, officially, that information is confidential. See, we have to get a fur's permission to use his likeness on the site, if he's the focal point for the shot. But we also agree not to pass his name on. Privacy thing, y'know?"

"I understand, sir. But this concerns a matter of national security. We need to know the names and addresses of those two furs."

"National security, huh?" His muzzle quirked up and he chuckled quietly. "How many times have I heard that one?"

"Do you mean to say that _Vermont_ Magazine has been involved in …"

"Oh, heck, no!" He cut off that line with a chop of one paw. "It's just history. See, I've worked in journalism for the last seventy-eight years, ever since the usual way a reporter would file a story was by telegram. Nineteen outfits on three continents and several island groups. I was a field reporter with British Foreign Press stationed on Maui when the Japanese attacked Pearl. And I covered every major event for the next four decades, before settling down in the States. Which you gotta understand meant that I got into it with a lot of the local bully boys, wherever I happened to be. See, I wanted to get the story out, and they always wanted it kept in. Usually, 'national security' is the code phrase for 'we want the info and would just as soon beat it out of you'. This government is better about it than most, but it's had its fair share of power-hungry cloak-and-dagger wonks." He wheezed out another airy laugh and pointed at the agents. "You two don't have the look about you, though. Seem like nice folks. How'd you get hooked up with a bunch of wieners like the ISB?"

Trina swelled in indignation. "Now, see here, Mr. Frosst, I think that attitude …"

"Kidding! Just kidding! Great _day_, but you're on a hair trigger! Too much coffee this morning? Want some herbal tea? I've got a nice peppermint-chamomile here …"

"Sir, about those furs," broke in Katherine. "We really do need to get their names. One of them was an agent of ours. He went rogue some time back, and we need to recover him."

"Katherine!"

"I'm sorry, Trina, but we don't have time to mess around with threats and bullying. Mr. Frosst appears to be a reasonable individual, but he could probably give us the verbal runaround for the next three days if he felt like it. I know Capra well enough to guess what he'd do in this situation. And I don't think our host will misuse the information." She looked the oldster dead in the eye. "Isn't that right, sir?"

The fur's gaze switched back and forth between the two a few times, and then he nodded. His body language eased up a little as he pulled out a notepad. "Okay. Tell you what. Here's the name of the camerafur who took the footage. Each one keeps his own permission records, so they don't get lost if our main office should be rifled."

"Rifled? You mean burglarized?"

"You got it."

"Paranoid bunch, aren't you?" observed Trina.

"You heard about the pessimist, the optimist, and the cynic?"

"Pardon me?"

"See, it's like this. A pessimist is a guy who won't loan his new car to his sixteen-year-old son for a date. An optimist is a guy who will. A cynic is a guy who did."

Trina snorted, then quickly recomposed her features.

Mr. Frosst wagged a finger at her. "You laugh, but it's really no laughing matter. You'd be surprised how often we get busted into. It's just a good idea." And he tore out the sheet of note paper and passed it to Trina.

" 'Mark Forrester' huh? Where is he? I assume he isn't in the building or you would have paged him."

"Right on target. He's over on the Lake, doing a photo shoot. Up around the border somewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't know exactly. Mark likes to follow his nose on these things, and I never argue with his results. Heck, that piece he shot that you're so interested in won us a mention in three different trade journals, and got him nominated for an Adams Award. And he's done several other things almost as good." His eyes went a little distant. "Tell you what. I've dreamed about those leaves."

"In the video piece?"

"A-yup." He was beginning to grin.

Katherine nudged Trina. "He's got a point. That's a terrific shot of an approaching storm."

She pursed her lips and nodded. "Yeah. It was top-notch, no doubt."

The old Tasmanian Devil was rocking gently in his chair. "Had somethin' similar happen to me as a kid. Storm comin' over top of a hill, wind racing down the slope, hittin' the trees in my back yard, and me out there in it, just watchin' 'em fall …" He popped back to the present. "Um … sorry. Woolgathering there."

"No problem, sir. Do you have a PA address or a pager number for Mr. Forrester?"

"Oh. Yeah. Here." And he took the paper back and scratched a number on it. "Don't get discouraged if he doesn't answer right away. Sometimes he turns it off." He thought about that and chuckled. "Make that, sometimes he turns it _on_. He doesn't really like the things. Loves his technological toys, but doesn't like to be bothered by 'em."

"Terrific."

"Oh, he checks his messages. Once every day or two. So if you leave him enough of them, and he feels the need, he'll call you back."

Katherine pulled out her own PA. "No time like the present." She dialed in the number and waited for the voice response. Then she tapped in her personal number and left a short message identifying herself, and asking Mr. Forrester to call her back.

The agents stood, made their farewells, and left.

Mr. Frosst stared at the closed door for a while. Finally he sighed to himself and began looking through a few of the stills in his IN box. _I dunno. Maybe I __should__ have told them about those other government yo-yos that came by on Thursday._

He stopped and thought that over, then ambled out to the reception desk.

"Hey, Dale, did you happen t' mention to those ladies about the CIA clowns that were here two days ago?"

"No. I didn't think it was pertinent. Should I have?"

"Eh." His muzzle twisting in a slight, thoughtful frown, he said, "Nah. Hell with 'em. We didn't tell those jerks anything, so I guess it doesn't matter. We'll let all those spy guys duke it out amongst themselves."

In a small, rather dilapidated house down the street from the magazine building, a hyena sat hunched over a state-of-the-art communications scanning system. He tapped a few keys, recording the information he'd just acquired, encoded it in a micro-burst, and sent it on its way to its new home. He didn't know the location of that next base, but he knew the message would get to the one who needed it. He knew Hamad would be pleased with his efforts.

He slapped a long-range tracker on Katherine's PA, and set the unit on automatic copy.

##

_** 1:40pm **_

They had run by a local fish place to grab a bite to eat on the trip, and headed north for Swanton. Mr. Forrester, wonder of wonders, had answered his pager almost immediately, and arranged to meet them at the small cabin he and his partner had rented for the week near Black Creek. It was a mostly-straight shot up Interstate 89, and they anticipated meeting him shortly before the hour. In the meantime, they resumed a recently-begun argument.

"Nope. Wouldn't happen. He'd get away."

"No, Katherine, _that's_ why we'd have to be extra-vigilant on the borders. And the APB's and news bulletins and emergency broadcasts would all have to be timed very closely, so that he got no inkling we were after him until at least _somebody_ who knew him had a chance to turn him in."

"But you're still making the assumption that Gulo has someone close enough to him to know his whereabouts in time to let _us_ know before _he_ finds out. That's a long shot, given what we know of his methods."

"It would be worth a try."

Katherine snorted. "Capra says he'd disappear faster than smoke in a wind tunnel. That he'd go to ground and we'd _never_ get another chance."

"But at least we'd have a solid lead! I think it would work. And it would be faster than this." She indicated their vehicle.

"As free and easy as he is with handing out death, and you want someone to rat on him? Trina, please! You read his file. He _kills_ the way other furs _breathe_. By instinct. Almost without thinking about it. And it would be in line with his record to eliminate anyone close to him before leaving the area. We can't risk it."

Trina hunched in the seat. "Hmh. Rajid thinks it's a big risk now, just knowing he's out there, but not where or what he's doing."

"And did you notice that he was in complete agreement with Capra's plan of attack? We _can't_ spook this guy. Capra says it wouldn't be healthy."

"Capra, Capra, Capra! You act like he's some all-knowing …"

"Trina."

The hedgehog glanced over at Katherine. "What?"

"Can we just drop it? Please?"

"Oh, all right." She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting just a bit. "Won't do any good, anyway. Nobody ever listens to me."

That brought a slight grin to the Husky's face. "Well," kidded her partner, "maybe if you actually came up with a good idea once in a … Hey! Whoa! Cut it out! No tickling the driver!" She had to protect her ribs from the hedgehog's claws.

"Serves you right!"

"You won't like it much if I wrap us around a tree, though."

"Party pooper."

"Save your tickle-torture for Mister Forrester, if he hedges on us."

"He didn't sound like a fur that would do that."

"Eh. We'll see."

Not quite fifteen minutes later they turned into the long, packed-gravel drive to the cabin. As they approached the small building, Trina observed, "A car, a truck _and_ a van? How many did Mr. Frosst say were on the crew?"

"Just him and his cohort, the otter. Steve Lootra, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Guess they have visitors."

"Or maybe someone to back him up while he talks with us. I don't much like the sound of that."

They parked about twenty-five meters from the little house, turned their car off, and sat for a minute, studying the situation.

Katherine grunted, "Hmh. Daimler 408. Whoever it is has style, I'll give him that. And lots of money."

Trina said, "The truck and the van both belong to _Vermont_ magazine. But that Daimler has Massachusetts plates, so it's not likely they'd be local acquaintances. Out of town muscle, you think?"

The Husky powered on her PA and got Capra caught up on what they'd found. He told them to go on in, but to be careful. "An' flip da safeties off, goils. I don' wan' eedda one o' yas comin' back in a body bag. If I'd known he was gonna pull dis stunt, yas'd have backup."

Both femmes checked their weapons and re-holstered. They had shut the car's doors and taken four steps toward the house when its front door opened and two figures emerged onto the porch. At first the agents took them to be the camera crew, but in three seconds they noticed three things:

First, while Mr. Forrester was a lemur and his partner an otter, both of these furs were weasels.

Second, one of them had a decent quantity of blood on his shirt.

And third, both of them were armed.

The two agents reached for their pawguns, but the weasels were already holding their weapons. They immediately opened fire. Trina zigged and zagged and got behind a rock. Katherine caught a few stray pellets from the shotgun before securing her position in the lee of a large oak. She yanked her PA back out and signaled Capra.

There wasn't much time for chit-chat, though. The mustelids reached their car and fired it up, tearing off down the drive, spraying gravel and dust. However, they reckoned without Trina.

The hedgehog had any number of glowing reports in her record, and was considered an all-around excellent agent. But one of the things that had caught Capra's eye was her weapons training. First in her class at the police academy. First in her division at the ISB annual competitions three years running. And then, on the job, where it really counted, she hadn't flinched when the perp needed to be taken down, and had received a commendation for saving the life of another agent.

She took out the front tire on the driver's side in one shot.

The sedan had accelerated to better than seventy klicks at that point, and wheeled over out of control, the rim biting into the packed gravel. It hit the shallow ditch, flipped forward over its left front quarter-panel, and smashed, roof-on, into a venerable maple.

Trina ran over to check on Katherine. "You hit?"

"Not bad. Just a little overspray from that damn shotgun." She felt of her side gingerly. "I'll live."

"Okay. You check the house. I'll take the wreck."

She trotted quickly over to the crash site, covering it with her pistol. Approaching the car from its rear, she peered in through the jagged hole that was all that remained where the rear window had been. She could see the passenger. He was wedged very firmly between his broken seat and the roof, chest caved in, his face turned approximately in her direction. She could also see from the quantity of blood that was trickling from the side of his mouth that he wouldn't be hanging around much longer. Doubtless the punctured lung was among a wide variety of internal injuries.

He was conscious though, and gave her a glare of implacable hatred. But glare was all he could do. Both arms were pinned tight.

From the angle of the vehicle against the tree, she already guessed what she'd find in the driver's seat, but went around to the other end of the car to check anyway.

Her muzzle wrinkled in distaste at the view. She went back to the rear.

Her PA was beeping at her, so she pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Kat'rine damn cut me off! What da fuckin' hell's goin' on up dere?"

"A real short fight. Got one dead perp and one about to be."

"What about da magazine guys?"

"Katherine went to check. I'll get back to you."

She snapped her PA shut and squatted down to the level of the weasel's face. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what all this is about, would you?"

She heard him mumble something indistinct, and he tried to spit at her, but his aim left a lot to be desired.

"I thought not. But, you know, you're gonna die real soon here. You might want to chalk up one decent mark in your favor before checking out of Dodge."

He managed a few fairly clear words, a directive to the hedgehog to perform an anatomically impossible act. Then the blood loss caught up with him, his eyes closed, and he went limp.

"Crap." She rose to her feet and jogged over to the house.

Katherine met her on the porch, her expression bleak. "We're screwed."

"They both dead?"

She nodded. "The otter was already dead. Mr. Forrester was still just barely alive, and tried to tell me something, but …" She shuddered. "Well … you'll see."

Trina sighed. "Damn. Damn and blast. We have to find out who those guys were, and fast." She paused a second, shook her head and cursed again. "I wonder who they're with. And how they found him. Think maybe they were tracking his pager transmissions?"

"That's possible. Pager frequencies are one of the most non-secret secrets available."

Trina squared her shoulders and looked up at her companion. "I'll fill Capra in. He'll want to get the lab furs up here to go over the place. And you need a medical type to take a look at your side there." She got her PA back out.

##


	3. Chapter 1 Comfort Zone  Part B

**_Chapter One – Is It A Long-Distance Call to My Comfort Zone? – Part B_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Saturday 08 October 2016, 5:45pm **_

Wendy had kindled a fire on the big grate in the library. It wasn't at all necessary for heat, but it gave the room a cozy feel.

Ed set down his mug of beer and continued his story. "So then Grandad come runnin' out the back door, and I took off. The first thing he spotted was one of the bean poles he had leanin' up against the side of the house. They were made of small saplings, five or six feet long and somewhere around an inch thick." He held up an admonishing finger at Ellen, who had opened her mouth to speak. "Don't you be going on about all that metric folderol. I'm too old to learn it and just old enough not to care."

The mink only grinned in response.

"Anyway, I don't know how many times he chased me around the house. I don't know why I didn't just run off up the hill. I might have been able to get away. Too young and stupid, I s'pose. So, he caught me, and tanned my backside good. Then when Dad got home, I was treated to an 'encore performance'. You talk about eatin' off the mantle? That was me."

Wendy frowned. "Sounds like an awfully … well, strict punishment. Kind of an over-reaction for nothing more serious than a broken window."

"Ah, but you have to remember a few other things, child. That was the early 1950's, 'fore folks started thinkin' of discipline as child abuse. Ah-ah-ah! I know what you're gonna say, and you can save your breath. It did me no permanent harm, and it got my attention. You can bet I never threw rocks onto Grandad's roof again! And besides that, we were all so poor we couldn't even pay attention. It took the rest of the summer and on into the harvest for Grandad to save up enough cash to buy another window pane. They don't give those things away, you know. And I got to hoe his garden and pick bean beetles off the vines and pull weeds and tie up the runners and feed the chickens and slop the hogs and clean out the corn crib and whatever else he thought of for me to do, until he figured I'd worked off the cost of the window. In the meanwhile, Gramma put up a piece of oilcloth to keep the bugs out and let a little light in." He took a deep draught from his mug, setting it down empty. "But the capper was that both my Mom and my Grandad had told me to my face not to throw rocks on the roof. They said I'd likely break a window. So it was deliberate disobedience, not an accident. It was wrong, it brought down wrath 'pon my head, and I never forgot it."

Wendy pointed at his mug and asked, "Would you like a refill?"

"No, thank you. Don't trouble yourself. I've really had more than I ought to have, but it was such a good brew I got carried away."

Marvla reached over and patted the back of his paw. "You'll have an early bedtime off it, too!" She winked at Wendy. "Just watch, he'll nod off any minute now."

The old badger proved her point by yawning hugely. "I just need to take my evenin' constitutional, that's all. Would you like to join me, dear?"

"I s'pose I might. My rheumatiz ain't actin' up today, so if you don't set too terrible a pace, I might be able to keep up. Down to th' Crick and back, you think?"

"Ayah. We can rest a bit at the gazebo 'fore we head back." With the help of his cane, he rose slowly to his feet, then offered his arm to his wife. He turned to look at Wendy. "Our overcoats? …"

"Already on the pegs by the rear doors."

"Thanks. See you after while." They ambled down the hall toward the exit to the Creek.

Wendy stretched in her chair, slinging a leg over one of its arms. She was full and lazy and happy.

Ellen asked, "You feel like sparring this evening?" It hadn't exactly become a ritual, but they sparred regularly enough to warrant the question. Her voice, however, gave ample evidence of her reluctance to indulge in such strenuous activity.

Wendy looked over at Ellen, shook her head and grinned. "Not me. I'm feeling bone idle tonight." Holding up her own empty mug, she declared, "Hey, girl, I'm goin' after another. You want?"

"You bet! That's great stuff."

"Belgian import. Best light ale I ever tasted." She hopped up and went back into the kitchen. She had pulled another pair of bottles from the refrigerator and was reaching for the churchkey when …

_[ [ daughter! ] ]_

"Aaah!" Wendy nearly knocked her mug off the counter. She peered around trying to see where he was. "Don't do that!"

_[ [ forgive me – you need to know – there is a feral bear in the area – he has the sickness of the mind ] ]_

"Sickness? … What sickness? …" Then it dawned on her. "_**Shit!**_ You mean there's a rabid bear around here?"

_[ [ his mind is clouded – almost gone – he fears everything and will attack all he meets ] ]_

"Crap!" She ran for the library. "Ellen! There's a rabid bear around here! We gotta get Ed and Marvla back in the house!"

"Damn! You just see him?"

"No, that … um, that fox told me." That statement elicited a startled look from the mink.

"Oh. Okay." She jumped up and ran for the door. "Let's go, then."

The old badgers were not too far down the trail, and turned around in concern when they heard the younger two pounding after them. Ed asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Sure is! I just … ah, that is, I just heard a report of a rabid bear in the area, and I think we ought to get back to the house right away!"

Marvla put both paws to her muzzle and said, "Oh, my!" Ed said, "A rabid bear? Are you certain?"

"That's what I was told."

"Who told you that?"

"A – um, a fox I know who lives in the woods."

They frowned at her statement. "There's someone living in the woods out here? What is he, some kind of hermit?"

"Sorta like that, yeah. Listen, can we talk on the way back? I'm not armed, and really not too keen to meet an insane creature that can kill me with one whack of its paw."

"Oh, very well. Better safe than sorry, certainly." They followed Ellen and Wendy back to the Inn with as much speed as they could reasonably muster.

_[ [ he comes ] ]_

Wendy's head jerked around. Ellen noticed and asked, "What is it?"

"Can we speed it up a little? I think … um, I think I hear something. Back there."

_[ [ he smells you ] ]_

All four heard the distant crunching in the brush just then. Their hackles rose.

Wendy said, "Marvla! Lean on me! Ellen, can you take Ed?"

"You got it!" And between them, they all but carried the elderly couple to the house.

They were panting, as much from fear as from exertion, when they got inside and locked the door. Then Ellen and Marvla both started giggling.

"I think I'm ready for bed now, Mother," remarked Ed, completely deadpan.

"And I'm gonna need something a little stronger than ale," said Wendy.

Ellen looked out through the glass of the rear door and gasped. "There he is!"

Ed jerked his head around, then his eyes got round. "That's a BIG bear!

The beast lumbered out of the fringe of the wood, its gait lopsided and jerky. But there was still enough light outside to see the madness in its eyes, and the streams of drool matting the fur under its muzzle. Ellen reached over and turned out the lights in the Rear Hall.

Ed whispered, "Good Lord!"

Ellen nodded. "Yeah. What you said."

The bear walked a crooked line in getting to the rear porch, but get there he did. Once up on the planks, though, he seemed to forget why he had bothered. He stood uncertainly, swaying slightly, but then the massive head swung around and locked on the door. He shuffled over to it and began sniffing at its base.

The old badger tapped Wendy on the shoulder. "I think we should get to a safer vantage point. That glass door doesn't give me a good feeling about our chances, if he should decide to come on in."

"Gotcha. Why don't we …"

Marvla gasped and the others looked around at the door. The bear was on his hind legs, and was leaning against the glass. One of the panes cracked as they watched, a small sliver of it falling to the tiled floor with a brittle tinkling.

They backed swiftly away from the door.

The bear drew his paw back and smashed in the glass.

Ellen screamed.

The bear roared out his pain as the jagged edges gashed his paw deeply. He began lunging at the door, whose hinges groaned in protest. More panes shattered on the tiles.

A door opened on the second floor and the pinch-faced canine came over to the railing. "What the devil is all that racket! I thought you …"

Marvla pointed and cried, "It's a rabid bear! It's breaking in!" She and Ed turned and hurried up the Hall to the library. They knew how thick its door was, and thought they'd be safe in there, at least for the time being.

The pinscher squinted at the bear, ran back into her room, and quickly came out again, holding something. She zipped down the stairs and toward the rear door, passed Wendy and Ellen, and stopped a few meters from the enraged animal.

What she carried was revealed to be a sawed-off shotgun, a twelve-gauge side-by-side. Rapidly, she planted her feet, took aim at the bear's snout, and let fly. The noise, in that enclosed and echo-prone space, was incredible.

The bear fell over backwards, kicked briefly, and was still.

Ms. Werminn broke open the weapon, ejecting the spent shells. She turned to Wendy, a sour look on her narrow face. "What sort of place do you run here, anyway?"

Wendy was indignant. "What're you talking about? _**I**_ didn't invite the bear! You think I planned that?"

"You should keep better control over the natives. That's why fences were invented. Or hadn't you ever heard of fences?"

"Oh, _come __on__!_ You honestly think a fence would have kept _that_ out?"

"The right one would." She attended to her weapon briefly, then snapped it back shut. "Of course I'll expect a full refund of the costs associated with my stay here."

"The hell you say!" Wendy could not _be__lieve_ this woman!

Her 'guest' drew herself up in high indignation. "How dare you curse at me! I could have your license for that!"

"And I could have you tossed in the slammer on your ear for carrying an illegal weapon."

"Hah! I should have known! Another knee-jerk liberal! I have a constitutional right to keep and bear arms! Or haven't you ever heard of the Second Amendment, either?"

Wendy was so furious she didn't trust herself to answer. She spun around and stalked off toward her office.

"You be sure to give me my refund in cash! You hear me? I paid you in cash, I want it in cash."

Wendy muttered under her breath, "Oh, you'll get yours, lady. Trust me."

Her paws were shaking badly enough to interfere with her ability to punch the speed-dial to the sheriff's office. She gave the deputy a concise account of the recent events at the Inn, and requested his assistance with her truculent visitor.

"Yes, ma'am! We'll be there in ten minutes."

As she was hanging up, she noticed Ellen leaning against the doorframe. The mink remarked, "Looks like we finally got one."

"Huh?"

"We got a rude, offensive guest."

"Uh, yeah, I guess we did. What does that signify?"

"Don't you remember?" Pulling out her copy of the script, she flipped it open and ran her finger down one page to a point near the bottom. "Back in Chapter Three of Book Two you remarked how surprised you were that we hadn't had any 'rude or offensive' guests. Well, we got one."

"Oh! Right. I remember. Boy, you nailed that one! Where's she get off …"

"Ssst! She's coming!"

The pinscher barged into Wendy's small office and said, "Harboring fugitives, too! You are in _big_ trouble!"

"What the hell are you ranting about? I'm not harboring fugitives … unless you're talking about yourself, that is. Has the asylum noticed that you're gone yet?"

The canine spluttered, "How _dare_ you …"

"How dare _you_! You think you can break the law because you feel like it, and no one will notice? You think you can just go around getting up in furs' faces and …"

"Hah! Ed told me all about that no-account tramp!"

" … Tramp?"

"Yes, tramp! Hermit, hobo, hooligan. Take your pick!"

"What … Are … You … Talking … About!"

"The tramp that told you about the bear! And don't try to deny it! There were witnesses."

"You're nuts, lady."

"We'll see who's nuts when they arrest him!"

Wendy gave her a steady look of disdain. "You really are a piece of work."

"Your pitiful insults won't save you from …"

"A fox told me about the bear."

"So? It doesn't matter what species he is, if he's a tramp, he's dangerous, and …"

"A _feral_ fox."

She stopped. Her eyes widened. ". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What?"

Wendy arose and took a step in her direction. "It was a feral fox that told me about the bear."

"… Feral … Feral … You spoke with … with a _feral_?"

"Yes. In fact, I've done it several times." She jabbed her finger at the femme for emphasis. "And _his_ conversations make a good deal more sense than _yours_ do."

The pinscher's mouth dropped open.

"And you know what else?" _jab, jab_ "I'm pretty sure he has a _helluva_ lot more right …" _jab, jab_ "to be in the woods than you do!"

The canine backpedaled out of the office, then turned and ran up the Hall, zipping around the corner to the porte-cochère. Twenty seconds later Wendy heard the faint sound of a car engine starting. By the time she and Ellen had made it to the nearest window, Ms. Werminn's vehicle was almost out of sight, and accelerating.

Wendy clucked her tongue. "The nerve of some furs."

Ellen chuckled. "She gives a whole new dimension of meaning to the word 'bitch'."

"Got that right." She followed the car's progress as its driver gunned it down the road to the south, disappearing behind the screen of woods at the edge of the meadow.

"Well, hey!" said Ellen, "It doesn't look like she wanted her refund after all, eh?"

"Hm. Maybe. I'm pretty sure her bag is still up in her room, though." But as Wendy made her way back to the Rear Hall, to assess the damage, she had to fight down a prickly feeling that she would be seeing a lot more of the irascible Ms. Hughrena Werminn.

##

_** 8:10pm **_

The Animal Control officers, Cheryl Stouffer and Patricia Staasch, a pair of gray squirrel femmes, spent quite a long time with the bear, taking various samples, examining its paws, tracing its path. They'd had no reports of other rabid ferals in the area, and were intensely curious as to how it got there.

They questioned all those involved at some length about when it showed up, how it acted, whether they'd had any physical contact with it, and so on. Patricia, the much-more-experienced of the pair, handled the questioning while Cheryl, a newlywed who had been with the department for just over a year, took notes. They went over everything with the elderly badgers first, so the tired pair could get on to bed, before starting in on Wendy and Ellen. And eventually they came around to the question Wendy had been dreading.

"And when did you first learn that the bear was in the area?"

"Uh … right before we went to get Ed and Marvla."

"So you saw it?"

"Well … no."

"Who did?"

"A … um … a friend of mine. Acquaintance, really."

"And who is that?"

"Well, see I don't know his name. Guess that's why he's just an acquaintance."

Cheryl stopped writing and looked up at Wendy. "You don't know his name?"

The vixen shook her head.

"How do you know him? Is he a neighbor?"

"Um … sort of."

Patricia said, "Ms. Wylde, it is imperative that we speak with _anyone_ who may have had contact with that bear. If he lives around here, we need to talk."

"I, um, don't really know where he lives. Out in the woods somewhere, I guess."

The officers glanced at each other. Wendy could tell they weren't buying her story. Patricia asked, "So, how often have you spoken with this … what was he again?

"He's a fox."

"Uh-huh." Cheryl was writing again. "How often?"

"Today was the fourth time. I think. Third or fourth."

"And you never thought to ask him where he lives?"

"It … uh … never seemed important."

"And today he just popped up out of the blue and told you there was a rabid bear around?"

"… Yes."

They looked at each other again.

Patricia sighed. "Look, Ms. Wylde. Let me be frank here."

"Please do."

"This is a very bad situation we have here. We're on the tip-tail end of rabies season in this area, and we've had only two reports since July for the whole state. If the bear really is rabid …"

"And we think he is," inserted Cheryl.

"… then we absolutely have _got_ to find out where the infection came from. Track it to its source and find out how far it has spread. It's very unusual for a bear to get it in the first place. Given this year's record, even more so."

"So," added Cheryl, "if you have any inkling as to where we can find him, please tell us. Otherwise we'll just have to beat the bushes around here until we flush him."

Wendy looked over at Ellen, who just shrugged and said, "Might as well tell 'em."

She turned back to the AC officers, her shoulders sagging a bit. They looked at her expectantly.

"You won't find him. He's a feral fox."

They didn't say anything for a few seconds, then Patricia said, "Repeat that, please?"

"He's a feral fox. A wild animal."

Patricia sat back, frowning and staring at the table top, but Cheryl's face registered her growing anger and lack of patience. "Ms. Wylde, if you ain't gonna cooperate, just say so. You don't need to insult us."

Wendy glanced back over at Ellen and said, "I knew they wouldn't believe me."

Cheryl gave Ellen the eye. "You know this character, too?"

The mink held up both paws. "No! We've never met."

"Have you heard Ms. Wylde speak of him before?"

"Yep. He's given her advance warning about things a couple of times."

That statement made Cheryl sit up a little straighter. "How's that?"

"Well, you know all the hoopla we've had over the past couple months about that purist bunch, the Knights of the Pure Strain?"

She nodded.

"He warned her they were here in Vermont before anything happened. Told her they were up to no good."

" … Really."

"Yep. Twice, wasn't it?" she asked of Wendy.

"Right. But the second time I relayed the message to the Attorney General's secretary, and she turned out to be one of the Knights. The feral somehow managed to warn the Foxxes in time for them to get away before their hotel room blew up. I still haven't figured out how he did it."

The officer just sat there, staring at her.

Finally, Cheryl said, "So that's your story? You talk with ferals? You gonna stand by that?"

"It's the truth."

She snapped her notebook shut. "Well, I'd hoped it wouldn't be necessary, but since you leave us no …"

Patricia reached over at that point and tapped her partner on the arm. "Cheryl? Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

Officer Stouffer looked back and forth between her partner and Wendy a couple of times, then shrugged and got up. "Back in a minute. Don't run off." And she and Patricia trotted out into the Main Hall.

Wendy sighed deeply. "I knew this was going to happen. Sooner or later I knew I was going to give something away."

"No big deal."

"You think so? What do you think it'll do to our business if word gets out that the owner communes with ferals? This is a pretty … conservative community. Maybe not exactly hidebound, but they can be set in their ways."

"You'll be fine. Honesty will get you a long way, most places, most times. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes until Ellen got restless. "I'm gonna go check on Ed and Marvla. Be right back."

Wendy nodded her acknowledgement and continued her silent introspection at the table. In a few more minutes she could hear the officers outside the door, their voices raised at each other. _Wonder what that's all about?_

Soon, Patricia came back in by herself. Sitting down in the chair beside Wendy, she rested her head on her paw and said, "We'll be going now. But I'd like to come back later and talk to you some more about your feral fox."

"Oh. Okay. Um … Where's your bud?"

"Probably sulking, out in the van. We had a disagreement." Eyes twinkling, she said, "It's species specific, isn't it? I mean … you've never talked to another other type of feral, have you?"

Wendy sat up, her eyes wide. "You believe me?"

The squirrel nodded. "Had it happen to me. Twice. Different squirrels, though. And you say this is the same fox every time?"

She nodded.

"Very interesting. I'd like to compare notes. Maybe introduce you to someone else I know who had that happen to him."

"Really? I'd love that!"

"Okay, it's a deal." She got up and headed for the door. "Let me go get Cheryl calmed down. She hasn't seen her husband for a couple of days, and, well …"

Wendy laughed. "I totally understand!"

"Okay, then. I'll see you later. Some evening next week?"

"Uh … I've got guests at the Café every night next week. During the day would be better, if you can swing it."

"Sure! That works better for me, anyway." She paused a second, then said, "Café?"

"Yeah. We're a B&B on the weekends, and a gourmet Café weeknights."

"Really. How come I haven't heard about it?"

"Well … I've mostly been relying on word-of-mouth for advertising. And I stay busy."

"Huh. Okay. Guess I'll have to check it out some evening." She lightly slapped the table with the palm of one paw and rose. "Gotta go! Cheryl's gonna stew the whole way back, I know, but it can't be helped. I'll see you later."

"Okay. Have a good evening, then." She waved at the departing squirrel. "And thanks for understanding."

##


	4. Chapter 1 Comfort Zone  Part C

**_Chapter One – Is It A Long-Distance Call to My Comfort Zone? – Part C_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Sunday 09 October 2016, 2:10pm **_

Lee shook the chaplain's paw as he said his good-bye's. "I just wanted to tell you again, Reverend, how much we appreciate your willingness to do this. It can't be easy, juggling a service in the state prison, then running over here just for our benefit."

The old marten smiled. "And I'll tell _you_ again, it's no trouble. Seeing your little group here so interested in keeping up with regular Sabbath worship does my soul good." He glanced over to where Cinnamon and Michael were standing, holding paws and talking with Debbye. "I believe it's doing our illustrious Attorney General a world of good, too."

Lee nodded. "Agreed. You know, with so many other aspects of our lives being flipped topsy-turvy, this gives us something of an anchor. And besides, I like your sermons."

"Thank you, son. I don't get much feedback from the inmates, usually. I have to cherish the few positive results I do get, seeing as how they don't come very often."

"Well, I know the Lord will honor your willingness to serve."

"Oh, He does, He does." He glanced at the clock and said, "I must leave now. I promised my wife I'd back before three. We have a play date with our youngest grandchild, and we don't want to miss it."

"Godspeed, then, and God bless."

Lee checked his own watch (an R-F model that recalibrated according to the National Atomic Clock once every twelve hours) and did a quick mental calculation. _Five hours and fifteen minutes to go._

He walked over and stood beside his wife.

Michael looked his way and asked, "Everything still on the green?"

"Roger that. Nineteen-thirty hours can't get here too soon for me!"

Debbye nodded. "It's been so long, and even though I know my parents are doing a great job with the twins, we just _couldn't_ miss their birthday! Not when we have a way to get there."

The Attorney General chuckled at that. "You two continue to amaze me with the kinds of strings you can pull."

Debbye smiled back at him and replied, "It's an old adage, but very true. It isn't _what_ you know. It's _who_ you know."

"Uh-huh. But I wouldn't have pegged you as being personal friends of the Secretary of Defense."

"Why not?" Lee wanted to know. "Puts his pants on one leg at a time, just the way you do. He's a nice guy. Heck of a good barbecue chef, too."

The bear's muzzle twisted in wry amusement. "It's just the way you seem to be able to get things to turn out to your satisfaction, that's all. At times it seems … almost uncanny."

"Nothing uncanny about thorough preparation, and plans executed with meticulous attention to detail. That's what makes me a good engineer."

"Huh. Lee, I've known lots of good engineers. Most of them are stuck in jobs outside their field of study, with companies they don't really care for. But that never happened to you." He shook his head. "Nope. You're not _just_ a good engineer."

"You're right!" said Debbye. "He's a good kisser, too!"

Cinnamon slapped her thighs and laughed, Lee's muzzle fur fluffed out straight, and Michael rolled his eyes.

"That's not what I meant!"

Debbye appropriated her husband's paw and looked up at him with a wide grin. "You've got your priorities, Michael, and I've got mine."

"I'd say a special courier, dispatched just so you can be with your kids on their birthday, outclasses a kiss, ma'am."

"Yes, you probably would. But then, you've never kissed him, have you?"

It was Michael's turn to blush. "Umm … Mrs. Evans, I still think you're missing my point …"

"Nah, Michael," said Lee. "She isn't missing anything. She's just jerking your chain."

"With both paws," put in Cinnamon, still laughing.

"Eh. Still. Just seems like there are an awful lot of furs anxious to give you whatever protection you need, so you can do whatever you decide you want to do."

Lee nudged the bear with his elbow. "Well, hey, you remember the Second Homeland Defense Act, don't you?"

"Of course I do. What of it?"

"Section Three has a few paragraphs on the protection of National Assets."

"So? Your point?"

"I'm a National Asset." He shrugged and grinned. "I need all the protection I can get."

Michael cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner and turned to Cinnamon. "You want to go get Emily out of the nursery now? It's getting mighty deep in here, and I forgot my water-wings."

"Sure, hon, let's do that."

As they walked out of the room, Lee looked down at his wife and asked, "You all packed?"

"Sweetheart, I've been packed for two days. All I need to do is pop a couple of things into my makeup case, grab my facial brushes, and we're gone."

"That's my girl!" And he hugged her. "Would you like to get some lunch now?"

"Oh, I don't think I could eat. Too jittery. I'll be on pins and needles till they get here."

"Well I'm too keyed up for a nap myself. Think you'd like to work out for a bit?"

"Work out?" She got a contemplative look on her face, and then dimpled. "Heh. Yeah. Let's have a little work out."

He caught the tone of her voice and grinned. "What _kind_ of work out are you thinking of?"

She slid her paw up and down his arm a couple of times, lightly ruffling his fur. Her sparkling eyes fixed on his, she replied, "Push-ups."

##

_** 7:20pm **_

The parade ground behind the old armory hadn't been used as such for nearly three decades. Mostly, it was a storage area for old pieces of equipment that the city or county had no immediate use for, and hadn't been able to get rid of. Things that still had a book value in some ledger program somewhere, and so couldn't be discarded, even though they were obsolete.

One corner of it had been leased to the daycare center adjacent to the government complex, and a preschool playground occupied that tenth of a hectare. Four old school buses squatted in a line along the fence at the rear of the field, and a small assortment of rusting lawn-care tractors stood guard in front of them. Other than that, the nearly two hectares of flat space was a semi-wild meadow that got mowed whenever someone got tired of looking at the weeds.

In other words, it was perfect for Lee's purposes.

He and Debbye stood just inside the rear door of the armory, watching the dusk fall. As the day had been overcast, it was already dark enough to warrant taking great care with one's steps outside, so as not to stumble over some rise or dip in the ground. That wouldn't be an issue here, though.

Debbye whispered, "Who did you say the pilot was tonight?"

"Cal Coon. He's the oldest test pilot we use, but his reflexes are still among the best ever recorded in the Service. He's never lost a bird yet."

She nodded silently. And the minutes crawled by.

Lee knew what he was listening for, and so picked up on the sound of the craft before Debbye noticed anything. He nudged her. "Here they come."

The guard punched in the code to open the door (an after-hours precaution used at every entrance) and stepped out to look up at the lowering sky.

"Good call, Mr. Evans."

There were several other guards placed strategically around the parade ground, and all of them went on full alert as the odd craft came into view. Hovering with its exhaust directed toward the ground, the ship positioned itself over the center of the field; then it reduced power to "Idle". Surprisingly, it fell at a constant, if rapid rate, slowing abruptly before touching down on a softly glowing column of highly-magnetized ions.

Their guard's jaw dropped open. "What the heck _is_ that thing?"

Grinning, Lee responded, "Just a technology testbed; we're picking up where the original developers of the concept left off years ago."

The ship presented as a sharp-edged disk, convex top and bottom with prominent center bodies over the inner half of the diameter.

"That's our ride, sergeant. We'll see you in a couple of days."

As Lee and Debbye hurried across the ground, the hatch in the lower center body popped open, a sort of ladder materialized below it, and a short, slender shape slid down the paw-rail. Debbye couldn't see him very well at all, but Lee recognized Cal's silhouette, and called to him. The raccoon waved back, and then helped them up the steep steps and into the craft. As the hatch closed, the ladder thing was seemingly reabsorbed into the ship's skin. Then the soft, blue glow reappeared and the experimental machine lifted quickly into the night. When the telltale glow became almost too faint the see, the personnel on the ground heard the exhausts roar to life. The sound reached a crescendo, then trailed off to the south in a quickly fading Doppler echo.

Sergeant Briggs shouldered his weapon and then glanced to his side at the figure that had stepped up beside him, quickly snapping a salute. "Sir!"

"At ease, sergeant."

"Sir? What was that thing?"

"What was what thing, sergeant?"

"That … that weird saucer, sir. The VTOL."

The major stared him right in the eye. "What saucer, sergeant? You don't mean to tell me you think you saw a flying saucer land here, do you? Your government swears they don't exist, you know."

"But, sir …"

"Sergeant, no saucer landed here tonight. We were simply conducting an emergency drill. Nothing more."

" … Yes, sir."

##

_** 9:46pm **_

Karl had devoted this evening to slogging through all the interdepartmental e-mails his worm programs had sent him. Most of it was deadly dull, the routine traffic that kept the bureaucrats fat, dumb, and happy, with only one out of every few dozen being of some interest. Then he started on Hemanth Rajid's file, and shortly became very interested, indeed.

The missives were presented in a latest-first format, and the second most recent commanded his full attention.

**. . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . . . Transmission Intercept . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . . .**

**File Type: Top Secret : Quarantine Code J**

**Security: 7-A**

**Originator: Hemanth Rajid, Director, Terrorism Interdiction, Northeast USA**

**Recipient: Colonel Cory Genetta, Undersecretary of Homeland Defense**

**Subject: Gamma / Collateral Damage **

**Follow-up on discovery of Gamma in web footage of Vermont magazine October issue. Jedediah Frosst, Gen. Mgr., directed us to Mark Forrester, the camera-fur who shot the film, as the source for ID of vixen in the scene. It is assumed that she would be able to lead us to Gamma. **

**Dispatched Trina Erinaceus and Katherine Malama to interview Mr. Forrester and his partner Steve Lootra. Arriving at his location, they were immediately fired upon by two weasels. Agent Erinaceus returned fire, resulting in the deaths of the attackers, who have been identified as Kinai Weuzzell and Rijker Schmedtte. Our files indicate that both of the dead furs were members of the Trenchant Fur Network, a sub-cell of the radical South African organization known as the Path of the Fourth Reich. They had close ties with the Cartel until it fell apart some six or seven years ago. They had tortured and killed both Mr. Forrester and Mr. Lootra prior to the arrival of our agents.**

**Our forensics experts have determined that they were after the same information that we wanted. We deduce that Gamma still has a number of enemies in the terrorist community. But the two TFN operatives destroyed all of the files that Mr. Forrester had, so at this time we have no way of obtaining the same information they did. The management at Vermont magazine, although understandably very upset, is cooperating with our efforts to locate the information. We have secured the apartment Mr. Forrester used, and will complete our search of those premises tomorrow.**

**. . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . . . End Transmission . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . . .**

He scrolled back through the last few days' worth of messages, getting the details on the Internal Security Bureau's search for him. After that he accessed Vermont Magazine's website to get a look at the scene in question, and then leaned back to think for a bit. Karl replayed that entire sequence in Augmented memory, stopping at one point to piece together a better view of the scenery, and …

Bingo!

He picked out the dark green van pulled off to the side of the road. So the oh-so-persistent Mr. Forrester had managed to get a shot of Wendy after all. That was highly unfortunate, especially for him, but of course there was no way he could have foreseen these consequences. And now, the Trenchant Furs were in the game as well. That probably meant that they had also seen the pictures of him and Wendy on the website.

He knew that despite his intense ardor for the project at the time, it hadn't been possible to kill everyone in all of the various Cartel cells. Not by a good stretch. He also knew their methods of interrogation would be a lot less pleasant than the ISB's, and that they wouldn't give up until they found him … or …

… Or until _he_ found _them_.

Now _there_ was a prospect to mull over for a while!

In any case it was clear to him that Wendy would have to be protected somehow. He could under no circumstances allow her to become embroiled in the fallout from his former life. He also made up his mind that he would offer no other 'photo opportunities' to anyone. Period. He had the necessary scanning and jamming technology to put a halt to any sort of electronic surveillance, long range or not, and it was obviously time to make that a part of his daily routine.

He frowned, sighing to himself in frustration. Although he _had_ anticipated this outcome, he still didn't like it, even a little.

He filed the information away for his planning session later, and worked his way through the rest of the info-traffic, finishing around midnight. Then he made himself a snack of three packs of cold cuts, a loaf of bread, half a kilo of jalapeno-jack cheese, and two liters of milk, before heading down to the sub-basement for some tactical exercises.

Time to see if the skills were still intact.

##

_** Monday 10 October 2016, 11:15am **_

Ellen was upstairs, cleaning the guest rooms. She'd be down to do the serving in about twenty minutes. Ms. Werminn's duffle had been repacked and stored in Wendy's office, until such time (if ever) that she decided to show up to get it. And Wendy was … _crafting_ lunch. She had given the menu an extra bit of attention, considering that Conner would be joining her for the midday meal: water chestnuts, wrapped in bacon, doused with tamarind sauce, and broiled; orange roughy, baked with fresh pineapple wedges; poached pears in a port wine cream sauce; blood pudding stuffed with dates and black cherries; and for dessert, a light blackberry sherbet with lemon zest.

She all but danced around the kitchen. She and Conner had spent four hours together Tuesday, and three more Thursday afternoon. He'd called her twice since then, on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and they'd talked so long each time she'd narrowly avoided neglecting her paying guests. But some of the topics they'd covered, and some of the hints he'd dropped, gave her the idea that he might be more than a little amenable to an intimate relationship. At least, that's what she read into it.

She hoped it wasn't just wishful thinking.

##

Conner von Trapp was not in the best frame of mind as he drove up Highway 7. He'd just left Middlebury and figured he had maybe fifteen more minutes before he got to the Inn. Fifteen more minutes to try to achieve some sort of calm. It wouldn't be a simple task.

He and Lin had teamed up several years back, when the dire wolf was hardly more than a puppy. A territorial war with a group of polar bears had resulted in the deaths of many in his pack, including his mother, and he had been wounded himself. His desperate mental cry for help had been Conner's first experience with feral communication, and until he actually caught sight of the wolf, he'd thought it was a furry esper. But he recovered from the shock quickly enough to fight off the bears and get Lin away, and from that first day they had been nearly inseparable.

And there is where his latest problem lay.

Conner had had relationships with many a femme in his life, but with his penchant for being a loner, his love of the outdoors, and (mostly) his dangerous line of work, none of them had lasted any significant time. He had no offspring that he knew of, and felt that to be a plus. He figured he'd make a lousy father.

Nevertheless, he enjoyed female company, and had the natural urgings in that direction that any male (any straight male, that is) would have. So it was with not a small level of frustration that he discovered Lin's disapproval of his budding interest in Wendy Wylde. It puzzled him greatly. Lin had had no objection to any of the other trysts he'd had over the last few years. The huge wolf didn't understand Conner's fascination with the subject, but it never seemed to bother him.

Conner tried to explain to his irritated partner that this was similar to those other flings, and that Lin shouldn't feel threatened by it. Lin totally misunderstood that comment, and got up into a high dudgeon over what he felt was a slight to his courage. It had taken most of the previous evening to get him calmed back down. The final outcome of this … well, Conner didn't like to think of it as a 'triangle', but couldn't come up with anything better … this _problem_ with Lin had yet to be resolved. It was with ill grace and deep reservation that the dire wolf had finally acquiesced to Conner's proposed meeting. But he didn't like it. And as Lin stalked off into the woods to hunt, Conner was glad he wouldn't be in the forest tonight.

It was too weird. He turned the situation over in his mind so many times it made him dizzy, and finally decided that, since he couldn't understand it, he would take Scarlett O'Hara's advice, and "think about it tomorrow". Today, he would be having lunch with a gorgeous vixen. A vixen, he'd concluded, with quite a head on her shoulders. Although he'd spent maybe twelve hours total talking with her, he found himself charmed with her character, her _gumption_, in tackling life on its own terms. And she was _damned_ easy on the optics.

He grinned at the possibility that crossed his mind. She'd made a few subtle hints as to her own personal preferences during their conversations. Unless his radar was totally jammed, he just might get lucky this afternoon.

And for that, Lin could go hang.

##

Ellen was using the stair in the Folly to get to the ground floor, and noticed a big pickup turning in to the drive. She raced the rest of the way down and sprinted along the South Hall to the kitchen.

"He's here!"

Wendy gave a little start at Ellen's sudden appearance, but then her brain processed what the mink had said, and she allowed herself a broad grin. "He's a little early. I wonder if that's a good sign?" She washed her paws and slipped out of her apron, dropping it on its designated hook as she hurried toward the door.

Ellen let out a low whistle. "Girl-friend, if you don't want him drooling on the floor, you might want to think about putting on something a little more … um, sedate. That get-up will _guarantee_ you don't make it to dessert."

Wendy chuckled as she pirouetted for the mink's benefit. "What, this old thing?" The shimmering, royal blue sheath fit her as well as her own skin, had a daringly plunging neckline and no back, and was held up by the merest suggestion of a halter. Though it curved down to hang well below her knees front and back, it was split up both sides nearly to her hips, giving tantalizing glimpses with each step. "Heck, honey, I only wear this when I don't care _how_ I look."

Ellen made a _tsk_ sound and said, "You've been watching _It's A Wonderful Life_ again, haven't you?"

Wendy only grinned as she sashayed out into the South Hall. She had high expectations for this meal.

##

_** 5:50pm **_

A weasel femme of middle years stepped nimbly out of a taxi in front of a small, exclusive Italian restaurant, and paused for a few seconds to look around. _The neighborhood has made quite a comeback these last few years. Rijker would have liked it._ She dropped her cigarette into the bin designated for that purpose as she strode on into the place.

She spoke quietly with the maitre d' for a moment, and then was shown to a private booth in the back. It was already occupied. The tawny fennec stood when she came through the curtain.

"Madame Schmedtte. A pleasure, as always. Allow me to order …"

Her Afrikaans accent was barely noticeable in her low, even voice. "You may dispense with the pleasantries, Hamad. I certainly plan to." She sat down across from him.

That statement failed to set his mind at ease. He sat as well and tried a different tack. "I was truly saddened to hear of your recent loss. Please accept my …"

His voice died quickly when from just over the edge of the table she pointed the silenced muzzle of a pistol at his nose.

She continued in that same measured, almost bored tone. "Ordinarily, I would simply kill you and wash my paws of this ill-conceived venture. Your lack of planning is as infuriating as your monomaniacal rage. You cost me two valuable operatives through your negligence, and in better times that would be unforgivable. But where before, it was just business … now, it has become … _personal_." She placed her weapon back into her reticule. "So I will allow you to live, that you may have your turn at extracting vengeance."

He asked, warily, "What is it that you wish?"

"Gamma's head, for a start. And the name of the government agent who killed my son." Her brow clouded slightly, briefly, before she regained her calm. "I will have him nine days a-dying. He will beg me for death's release."

"I will make it so."

"Then I have nothing more to say to you." She rose, and he was careful to match her. "Call me when you have located Gamma. I will be preparing a welcome for my son's murderer." She parted the curtain and left without another glance.

He sat back down and willed his heart to slow. _Rijker was a poisonous little bastard, and good riddance to him. _He grimaced and shook his head regretfully._ It's a pity someone else didn't kill him years ago, because now I have __this__ crap to deal with._ He sat back against the plush seat and reached for his drink. His day had definitely gone south, that was for sure.

##

_** Beaver Creek Park, Bear Paw Mountains, Montana **_

The bright silvery-yellow of quaking aspen leaves made a perfect backdrop to the campsite Willa had chosen. The cabin, though not supplied with electricity, had most of the other comforts the "citified folks" had come to expect. She wasn't as picky, though. She'd spent three years in the wilds of the Canadian Shield, studying the feral gray wolves for her doctorate in Comparative Evolutionary Biology. Modern conveniences were definitely in the non-necessity category.

The rabbit doe had been a quiet sort of rebel through much of her life. She'd never seen eye-to-eye with her hyper-conservative Quaker parents, opting out of the husband-and-kids tradition they so valued. And she had seldom judged her chosen path to be the lesser one. Her work was important and fulfilling, and had been instrumental in the last two rounds of debate over logging in the affected areas. And although she spent a lot of her time alone, Willa Burroughs almost never felt lonely. Her mother fretted that she never had any male companionship, but that didn't bother Willa. She could take it or leave it, and if she chose to take it, she never had any trouble getting it.

This evening, though, she wasn't thinking about any of that. She'd decided to take a semester off from her teaching position at Montana State. She wanted a sabbatical, and she had an idea for another book forming. So she packed up her portable office, turned off her PA, and set out to find a little seclusion, in hopes that her Muse might more easily locate her.

She sat by her fire, enjoying a glass of dark red wine, swirling it slowly and watching the dance of the flames through it. Evening would soon fall, and she anticipated the nightly song of the coyotes with relish.

But dusk came and went without the usual serenade. She went to stand at the window, to see if she could make out any reason for their absence, but the star-speckled dark outside gave her no inspiration. The trees were only a serrated silhouette, not truly visible since the moon had not yet risen. She thought about going out and poking around a bit, but the chill of the wind had a penetrating quality that made her glad of her sturdy log walls and ample supply of firewood. She decided against it.

Instead, she made herself a pot of chamomile tea and cozied back up in the big, overstuffed chair. She made a few notes, then when her eyes got heavy she closed it down and placed it on the floor beside the chair. She got up and stretched, had a prolonged yawn, and was walking toward the other room, and her bed, when she heard it.

The high, keening cry immediately sent chills racing each other over her body. She could not identify the type of animal that could make a sound like that, and it disturbed her. But curiosity overcame her initial fright, and she went back over to the window.

She frowned. _Wait just a minute! Why is it so dark? Where'd the stars go?_ She looked at the small battery-powered clock on the wall. _The moon should have risen by now! What's going on?_

That shrill cry came again, louder this time. Shivering, she thought to herself that a gun might not have been such a bad idea. Normally she was dead set against them, but lofty ideals have a strong tendency to crumble in the presence of real danger. She went over to the door to make sure it was locked, and then came back to the window.

She thought she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to peer intently that way. _Maybe this is a fog that came up suddenly. Funny for this time of year._

She leaned her forehead on the cold glass, watching, watching …

And a huge paw crashed through the glass, clamped around her throat, and dragged her back out into the blackness. There was no time to scream.

And little shards and tendrils of that blackness oozed into the room through the broken window.

##


	5. Chapter 2 Judgment Part A

**_Chapter Two – Judgment – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**God Himself, sir, does not propose to  
****judge a man until his life is over.  
****Why should you and I?**

_**-Samuel Johnson **_

##

_** Monday 10 October 2016 – 1:45pm **_

Ellen had quietly cleaned and disposed of the remains of lunch, and finished up in the kitchen. She peeked into the freezer, smiling a little to herself: the sherbet still sat there, four small spheres tastefully arranged in each of the two fluted dessert goblets_. I was right. Heck, they didn't even make it to the pudding._ She closed the door, took one last look around to make sure she hadn't missed anything, and padded softly out to her car.

She had mixed feelings about all of this. She was happy for Wendy, mostly, but after finally getting a good look at the wolf in question, she'd had a few small fantasies of her own. Yeah, he was twice her age. Big deal. He carried it off very well. And she'd been between boyfriends since breaking up with Rob, and if she wanted to be brutally honest with herself, the rangy puma really had been good for a thing or two … or three … or four, on one occasion, if memory served.

_Damn. Gonna get myself in an uproar, thinking along those lines._

She sighed softly as she climbed into the vehicle. She knew she could hang around the Inn and Wendy wouldn't mind. The place was certainly big enough to afford everyone involved all the privacy anyone could need. But she didn't feel completely comfortable with the idea. Especially so, now that …_ Stop it, stop it! I __don't__ have any reason to be back until five. I'll run down to Quinn's and get those filters Wendy wanted for the French press._ So, determined not to dwell on what could not be, she trundled her old car down toward the main road.

##

_** 2:00pm **_

Columbus, still recovering from its share of the nationwide sprinkling of terrorist attacks the previous Christmas, had not been what you could call 'peaceful' since. The reconstruction of the downtown I-70/I-71 Connector had yet to be completed, so all the through-traffic was restricted to the Loop, and all the in-town traffic in that area had to use the surface streets. The bridges over the Scioto River around there were perpetual parking lots these days. The City Council had a self-imposed one-year deadline for rebuilding the shattered cloverleaf. It was even still theoretically possible that they might beat it.

The home that George and Linda Squirrel had made for their family wasn't all that close to ground zero, lying several kilometers to the east of the bombed section, in the Berwick area. They lived either two or three streets off of Berwick Boulevard, depending on whether you approached from the east or west. Their street was quiet, with minimal traffic, and more than its share of towering oaks. Several hundred of their little feral counterparts shared the community with the furs in the big, comfortable houses. Debbye could hear them scolding and chattering to each other high in the trees.

The twins were still napping, and their mother had taken a moment to relax in the back yard, before the party got underway. Linda had a small half-gazebo that sheltered a wide swing, and earlier in the year clematis had twined up both sides. Her "Mister Lincoln" rose still had many of its green leaves, but the velvety, deep-red flowers were almost gone, testimony to the two good frosts they'd had the week before. Still, the feeling of serenity she received from this little space helped her to calm and center her mind. There was no breeze to speak of, and the afternoon sun shone warm on the fur of her face as she reclined there, drifting slowly back and forth.

She heard the light rustle of footfalls through dry leaves on the grass and opened her eyes.

"Fancy some company?"

She smiled at her husband and scooted over to make room. He sat next to her, and she curled up in the seat, placing her feet in his lap. Absently, he began to rub them as they glided to and fro.

After a bit, she said, quietly, "I can't wait for this whole trial thing to be over and done with. It'll be good to get back to our old, boring, predictable, wonderful lives."

"Yes. It will." _If we can. If they will just leave us alone. If the authorities got them all. _But he didn't voice those thoughts.

"How's Mom coming with the decorations?"

"Oh, they're done." He chuckled a little. "You know your mother. The Mistress of Efficiency."

"Yep. That's Mom." She stretched one arm over her head and yawned. "The little ones still asleep?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Good. They'll need their rest for this 'do'."

They didn't say anything more for a minute, just sat there soaking in the rays, enjoying each other's presence. Then Lee said, "Your father went over to the house."

"Really? What for?"

"I gave him the key to the gun cabinet."

She sent him a somewhat more direct look. "Which one?"

"The big one. In the basement."

Her expression sober, she asked, "Anything special you wanted out of there?"

"The high-cap magazines. Our modified carbines." He reached over and caught the top edge of her impact shroud where it was just visible at the collar of her jacket, rubbing the odd, silky material between a finger and thumb. "Also our combat vests, the special ones Frank got us. These shrouds are good, but, well …"

She huffed, "Lee Evans! If you think for one minute that I'm going to spend this whole blasted week in that bulky, hot …"

"Whoa! Whoa, there little lady. Those are just in case."

"Just in case of _what?_ Nobody knows we're here!"

"For when we get back. For if we have to go outside."

She crossed her arms and huddled down into her jacket. The sun no longer felt quite so nice and warm. "You sure know how to spoil a girl's mood."

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to. I don't expect to need them. But I was talking with Karl and Michael and concluded that it couldn't hurt to have the things ready to paw." He used one finger on her chin to gently turn her head his way. "Sweetheart, I know this isn't easy. I know it's been a real strain, on _all_ of us, and I'm really sorry. I wish I could just make it go away, make it so that it never happened." He gave her a hug, and held on. "When I think of something happening to you, somefur out there who would kill you given the chance, it just … well, it doesn't bear thinking of. I want to do everything in my power to prevent it." He shook his head ruefully. "Maybe I am being a little over-protective. But do you blame me?"

"Oh, Honey, of course not! I feel the same way. How could I not?"

They didn't speak further. They rocked, and they cuddled. And several minutes later, Linda stuck her head out the door and informed them that the twins were awake, and had requested their immediate participation inside.

##

_** 6:20pm **_

Conner steered slowly onto the graveled area near his campsite, and parked, shutting off the engine. Even now, he caught himself grinning for no reason. _Well, okay. Really, I've __got__ a reason, and a good one._ He left his smile in place and got out to tend the camp.

_[ [ what you so all-fired lit up about? ] ]_

Conner looked over toward the trees.** [ [ Hey, Lin. Nice to see you, too. ] ]**

The giant lupine moved out of the shadows and trotted over to look up at Conner. _[ [ hmph – at least you made it back in one piece ] ]_

Conner gave a small, exasperated sigh as he turned back to the truck to get the items Wendy had given him. **[ [ Yes. Why wouldn't I? She's hardly a cannibal. ] ]** He didn't want to let go of the warm, satiated mood he was in.

_[ [ ain't her i worry about – it's them bloodsuckers ] ]_

Conner whirled back to face the dire wolf, his packages ignored. **[ [ What? ] ]**

Lin's tongue lolled out in his version of a smile. _[ [ you don't listen too good sometimes, boss – i done told you about that already – bloodsuckers is still out there ] ]_

**[ [ You didn't say a thing about purists! All you said was that you didn't want me getting close to Wendy! ] ]**

_[ [ did too – but you had your mind all made up to go matin' again – working off whatcha want, 'stead of what's best – like i said – you don't listen good ] ]_

Conner didn't respond right away. Several thoughts went racing through his mind. Finally, he asked, **[ [ So, what do the purists have to do with Wendy? ] ]**

_[ [ some of 'em heard 'bout her – want to find her – want to kill her – kill you too if you're there ] ]_

**[ [ ****Kill**** her? ] ]**

_[ [ that's what i said ] ]_

**[ [ Are they anywhere close around here? ] ]**

_[ [ don't know – just know they heard she tipped off somebody about tryin' to kill that blackfurfoxgirl ] ]_

**[ [ And you know this how? ] ]**

_[ [ i hear things ] ] _

**[ [ You hear things? ] ]**

_[ [ yep ] ] _

**[ [ From where? ] ]**

_[ [ here and there ] ]_

**[ [ Uh-huh. ] ]** Conner was beginning to feel a little better about the situation. Lin did have a tendency to overstate the case, after all. **[ [ I don't think you have much to worry about, little buddy. ] ]**

_[ [ they'll find her sometime – kill her when they do ] ]_

**[ [ Not with me around, they won't! ] ] **

_[ [ bet they got guns ] ] _

Conner drew his Redhawk and held it muzzle-up. **[ [ That's why I carry this, Lin. You really think any of ****them**** can outshoot **_**me**_**? Please. ] ]**

_[ [ there's lots of 'em ] ]_

**[ [ Not any more. There might be a few pockets of 'em left here and there, but nowhere near enough of 'em to be a real danger. ] ]**

Lin was stubbornly insistent. _[ [ no – there's lots of 'em ] ]_

Conner knew the feral's limitations when it came to numbers. Lin comprehended pairs, and could count to four, so eight (or four pairs) was as high as his knowledge of cardinal numbering went. Beyond that, his expression was typically 'lots'. The tall wolf holstered his pistol and knelt down in front of his friend, from which position he had to look up slightly to meet the feral's gaze. He reached out and scratched him affectionately behind the ears. **[ [ Don't you fret your little gray head about it, Lin. I can take care of myself. ] ]**

_[ [ i know, but … ] ]_

**[ [ Don't worry! If they show up … ] ]** And here he grinned broadly. **[ [ It's just a little target practice. ] ]**

Conner could sense Lin's doubts on that score, but the giant wolf finally did acquiesce, however reluctantly, to his wishes. _[ [ just you be careful, boss – i'd have a hard time replacing you ] ] _

**[ [ Heh. Guess you would. ] ]** He stood up and motioned to the truck. **[ [ Looky what I brought with me! That vixen can cook like you wouldn't believe. Here, try one of these … ] ]**

##

_** Tuesday 11 October 2016 – 9:10am **_

Ellen grumbled silently to herself upon sighting the Inn. Wendy's van sat right under the front edge of the porte-cochère, square in the middle of the passage, effectively sticking her out on the driveway in the rain. She parked as close as she could get to the rear of offending vehicle.

As soon as she opened her car door, she could hear the music. _Abba? Man, I haven't heard __Dancing Queen__ in years and years! Not since my Aunt moved out._

She tucked the morning paper under one arm inside her coat and pulled her hood forward to block the stinging, cold drizzle slanting out of the gray morning sky. Jogging the few meters to the porte-cochère, she went inside and headed back to the kitchen. The music was loud, but not obnoxiously so, and the sight that met her eyes made it worthwhile anyway. She watched for a quarter minute as Wendy danced around the big kitchen, a broom for a partner.

The vixen finally noticed her and whirled to a sudden stop.

"Oh! Hi, Ellen."

"Hey, there."

Wendy walked over and turned the volume down. "Sorry. I didn't hear you come in."

"Obviously."

"So … it's a beautiful day, isn't it?" she remarked brightly.

The mink kept her tone very even. "It's dark. It's blowing cold. It's wet. That's only beautiful if you happen to be a duck. Which I'm not."

"Really? Is it raining?" Wendy took a quick look out the kitchen windows. "I hadn't noticed."

"You know, you don't _have_ to look _quite_ so disgustingly happy."

The vixen smirked a little, cocking her head to one side. "Why not? It's my turn."

Ellen had to chuckle at that. "I suppose. I shouldn't begrudge you a good time when you can manage it."

"Oh! A _good_ time? Kiddo, it wasn't just a _good_ time!"

"Please!" and here she threw up her paws. "Spare me the details. I'm having enough trouble as it is without you adding fuel to the fire."

"Sorry! Sorry! Didn't mean to gloat. Well, not much. But Ellen, he's just _so_ …"

"No details!"

"Oh, okay. Let's talk about something else, then."

"Yeah, speaking of which …" Ellen shrugged out of her coat and hung it on one of the hooks by the door, then went to the counter and spread the paper out to show the headline. Wendy came over and gave it a look.

TASK FORCE NABS

TERRORISTS

"Huh! What's that all about?"

"You remember right after that bombing spree all over the Midwest summer before last, how all the Congresscritters pledged to 'do something' about terrorism on the home front?"

"Ugh. Yes." Wendy's muzzle wrinkled up. "That's all you could hear or read about for months. All three parties accusing the other two of not caring, or getting in the way of safety, or whatever. Bleah."

"Then, when all those different pieces of Interstate got bombed on Christmas Day, and there was that grass-roots movement to recall everyfur in the House and Senate, they said they were 'stepping up the battle'?

"Oh, yeah … I remember. Um … wasn't that when that senator from Alabama made such a big stink about wanting to be in charge of the Homeland Defense Committee?"

Ellen nodded. "Right again."

"Vulpeky or something, wasn't it?"

"Vulpexa. Zeb Vulpexa."

"Yeah, that's it. He pulled some kind of shady maneuver and they impeached him, or something."

"Tried to. It never got off the ground."

Wendy pointed back to the paper. "Does this have to do with all that?"

"Sort of. Looks like they actually managed to accomplish something for once." She cleared her throat and read, " 'Dateline: Washington, D.C. Senator Tyrone Spaniel (D-Md), the Chair of the Committee on Homeland Defense, on Monday praised the elite anti-terrorism task force commissioned by the Senate to stop terrorist attacks on U.S. soil. He stated that as the culmination of a months-long intelligence-gathering effort, they have broken the back of a major terrorist ring in the Mid-Atlantic Region. Over one hundred and fifty arrests were made in a massive round-up of known operatives of the mysterious and infamous "Cartel". He also affirmed that, while he was not at liberty to give out names, several of the suspects were well known to the CIA, the FAI, Interpol, and the ISB, and several were on the Top One-Hundred Fugitive list. In several cases, bomb-making materials and plans of pending attacks were discovered in the possession of the suspects. The Senator further declared that this was merely the first of a series of such raids. "We know who you are, and we are coming for you," he said.' " She stopped and looked up. "The story's continued on page six."

"Well. Whaddaya know about that."

"Yeah. Pity they couldn't have done something about the Knights before they got to Vermont."

"Hoo! Heard that!" She frowned briefly as something clicked. "Hey! When those DoD furs came by to get the Evanses, one of them was saying about how the Knights had terrorist ties."

"Yeah? So?"

"Karl knew about it."

"_Karl?_"

"Mm-hmm. I seem to recall that you walked out shortly after you brought that agent to the kitchen. Karl told the fellow all _kinds_ of things about the Knights."

"How would he know that?"

"I meant to ask him at the time, but there were too many distractions. Forgot about it until just now. He mentioned he'd been putting together a database on the Knights, and … I think he was going to turn it over to them. Or something." She paused in thought. "Maybe Michael Truefoot knows about it. He seems to be in the thick of things, where those purist bastards are concerned."

Ellen chuckled. "You really think it would do any good to ask him?"

"Enh. Probably not." She shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I guess. Just curiosity on my part. Maybe I'll see if I can dig it out of Karl next time I see him."

Ellen bit her lip for a few seconds, then said, "Wendy, can I ask you … um … something kinda personal?"

"You can _ask_ anything you want. I might tell you it's none of your business, but you can ask."

"Okay. You remember last week when Cheetaur showed up?"

"… Yes." _This is personal?_

"Well, when Mr. Raines rang the doorbell and we were going to the front door, I sorta – um – asked you about Karl."

_Oh! Yep, that's personal._ "Okay. I remember that, too."

"You – um – looked pretty upset over something. I've been trying to figure out what it was, and whether it was something I did, or something I reminded you of."

"I see. It was the latter. Karl and I … we had … well, kind of a falling out." She held up a paw. "It was temporary, though, thank goodness. We got it all straightened out."

"Oh. Okay." _All straightened out, huh? You didn't look straightened out to me._

"Yeah, we're back to being friends now."

"_Just_ friends?"

The tiniest little furrow appeared on Wendy's brow. "Yes. Just friends."

"So then you wouldn't mind if I wanted to date him?"

"_**What?"**_

Ellen took a step backward.

Wendy quickly regained control. "I'm sorry. That just surprised me, that's all."

_Yeah, right!_ "Look, if you'd rather I didn't, that's okay. I don't want to upset our working relationship. I just think he's cute, and I'd like to see what might develop." She grinned. "See whether he's … well, proportional."

Wendy got a very cautious look on her face. "Um, have you ever talked to him about anything like that?"

"No. But there's no sense in waiting that I can see. Girls just wanna have fun, you know, and this girl hasn't had any fun in a while."

"Ahhhh-huh. Well. Good luck. You'll need it."

Ellen snickered. "Gee, thanks! What a vote of confidence."

Wendy gave her head a few shakes. "It isn't that. No, in the 'looks-that-will-grab-a-guy' department, you definitely qualify."

"What, then?"

"It's him."

"… Okay … so, what's wrong with him?"

Wendy considered her words carefully. "It isn't so much that there's anything _wrong_ with him. It's just the way he looks at things. He's a Christian."

"So? Your point?"

"You ever date a Christian?"

"Sure. In college a couple times, a guy named Alan. Fox-skunk hybrid. He was fun. Good kisser."

"Hmm … … Well, Karl takes that Bible stuff to extremes. If you're expecting a good romp out of him, I think you'll be disappointed. Unless you want to marry him first."

The mink frowned. "Really? Shoot. Didn't know that." The light came on, and she turned wide eyes onto her employer. "Oh! So you … um, I mean, you, uh … you and Karl, um … that is …"

"Yep. And nope. Which is a shame, because he's … um, skilled."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be," she grinned. "I've got myself a winner now. I don't think 'afternoon delight' will be a problem any more."

"You're getting that smug expression on your face again."

"Heh. Don't mind me. And don't let me stop you going after Karl. You might have better luck."

"Nah. If he didn't fall for you, he wouldn't fall for me."

"Ho-ho! Don't sell yourself short, girlfriend. Just because he held himself back with me …"

"Never mind! Hey, listen. You want me to whip up a pot of that cinnamon espresso? I've got a taste for some of those ginger snaps to go with it."

Wendy considered her employee with approval._ She's pretty sharp. A new subject probably __would__ be a good idea._ "All right. Sounds good to me. We can read the paper. I want to know more about these terrorist arrests."

"Yeah, I like that."

##

_** 2:15pm **_

Lin padded slowly over to the truck where Conner was arranging his weapons in the TrukBox. _[ [ goin' back over to that big house already? ] ]_

**[ [ I told you I was. She had a cancellation for the late time slot and offered to make me dinner. You tasted what that lady can do with venison. Think I'm about to pass that up? ] ]**

_[ [ hmph – nah – don't blame you ] ]_

**[ [ I'll bring you some back. But don't wait up. ] ]**

_[ [ i'll be out ] ]_

Conner cast a glance his way**. [ [ Doing a little hunting? ] ]**

_[ [ something like that ] ]_

Conner tried not to let his own frustration show. Lin had been giving evasive answers like that for a few weeks now, whenever questioned as to his whereabouts. Not that it was really any of Conner's business. The dire wolf knew enough not to go raiding farms, and the local deer population was close to the saturation point. Game was hardly a problem. But this growing secretiveness was unlike him.

**[ [ Okay, then. I'll see you in the morning. ] ]**

_[ [ maybe ] ]_ And he turned and trotted off into the woods. Conner watched until he vanished, then shook his head and went back to his organizing.

##


	6. Chapter 2 Judgment Part B

**_Chapter Two – Judgment – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Tuesday 11 October 2016 – 3:35pm **_

Alan Grey answered his phone on the second ring. "Mercy Chapel. This is Pastor Grey."

"Alan? Hey, this is Duane. Got a minute?"

"Sure. Just going over my sermon notes. What's on your mind?"

"Well … you know my cousin Blake?"

"Blake … yeah, I think so. Tall, thin Beagle hybrid? Mostly white?"

"That's him. He came to church with us a couple times, but he left because he said we weren't Godly enough."

Alan snapped his fingers. "That's right! I remember that conversation. He objected to the dress of some of the teenage girls, didn't he?"

"Ayah. And the service. He thought the praise music was awful, too much like rock, and he didn't like us usin' musical instruments in the church noways, and he said the femmes an' males oughta be on diff'rent sides o' the church, and he thought we all shoulda been kneelin' while we prayed. An' you shoulda been wearin' a tie."

"Uh-huh. Can't please everyfur, I guess. So how's he doing? What church is he going to now?"

"Wellllllll … that's what I need to talk to _you_ about."

"Really? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"Not yet. But I'm that worried. He's joined this little group that meets at somebody's house."

"That's not usually a problem, if their doctrinal stance is sound. You know what they believe?"

"Not much. I haven't been to their meetings. But I do know this: they lean mighty heavy on the Old Testament. And they take a lot of it … uh, _real_ serious."

"You've talked to Blake, then?"

"Well, mostly, he talked to me. Wanted to know if … no, really, he more like insisted that I go with him on a secret mission."

Pastor Grey didn't like the sound of that at all. "What _kind_ of mission?"

"He wouldn't give me too much in the way o' details, but he said they were bound to 'take care of a problem with outsiders'. I wanted to know what kind of problem, an' he says, 'Necromancers.' So I says, 'What's that?' And he says, 'Look up Exodus 22:18 and you'll see what I mean.'"

"Mercy!" Alan went cold all over. _Please, Lord, don't let that mean what I think it means._ "Did you look it up?"

"Ayah. That's why I'm callin' you. I was hopin' maybe you could talk some sense into him."

"Where is he?"

"Dunno. But he told me they was all gonna meet tonight to take care of the problem. They're s'posed to be gettin' together around eight over at Bays' place. He said I needed to be there, but I tell ya what, I ain't goin'. They're up to no good, I says. An' I think I know where they're headed, too."

"Where's that?"

"Over to the old Vulpin place."

Alan had to pause a second to let that sink in. It was, to say the least, not what he'd expected to hear. "Are you sure? I thought, when you said 'Necromancers' that they'd be targeting the coven that meets down below Middlebury."

"Ain't for dead-on sure, no. But he was with two others from his group, and I overheard some o' what they was sayin', and I heard 'Vulpin' twice. They ain't no other Vulpins around these parts. 'Sides, them coveners is just pagans. Don't do no magic. One o' the boys my least un's in Scouts with, his folks is in with 'em. They got 'em a real huggy-huggy goin' with the local forest, but they ain't a witch in the bunch. Not the black-hat-magickin' kind. Naw, my money's on them bein' headed out to the old Manor House."

"But … but why would they? They think Ms. Wylde is practicing magic? That doesn't sound plausible. She _certainly_ doesn't strike me as the type."

"Eh. Goofy or not, that's what I heard. Just thought you oughta know."

"Did you call Ms. Wylde?"

"Nope. Don't know 'er. But I figgered you'd know somefur as did. Anyways, I ain't showin' up at his blamed meetin'. Buncha nut-heads."

"Neither would I, in your place. I'm glad you called me. I'll see what can be done."

After they ended the conversation, Alan pondered his next course of action. First, he took a moment to look up a number in the Middlebury phone book.

"Think his name was … Stephens … Stephens … Ah, Brightlimb Stephens. Right." He dialed the number and in two rings heard, "Hello?"

"May I speak with Mr. Stephens, please?"

"Brightlimb or Windhaven?"

"Uh … Brightlimb."

"Wait, please."

Perhaps a quarter of a minute passed before he heard, "This is Brightlimb. The blessings of the Goddess be upon you."

"Thank you. And the blessings of Christ be to you."

"… Ah … Excuse me?"

Alan chuckled. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stephens. This is Alan Grey. I'm the pastor at Mercy Chapel, up west of New Haven Junction."

"Oh. Very well." Alan heard some deep reservation in that voice. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"More like the other way around. It's like this …" And he recounted the gist of the conversation he'd had just minutes earlier.

" … So, you see, I felt that I should give you a heads-up, in case my friend heard wrong."

"I … understand." Brightlimb paused for long moments. "Thank you for the warning. I will pass it on to the rest of my coven."

"Good."

"Um … Pastor Grey? May I speak plainly?"

"Sure."

"Since we formed our coven three years ago, I've had a few … um … run-ins with some of the local church leaders from Middlebury. They seemed to think it would be better if our people just … went away. Please pardon my asking, but why do you care if some wild-eyed splinter group wants to run us off?"

"Huh. Well … if the situations were reversed, and a radical anti-Christian group had leaked to one of your members that they intended a strike on Mercy Chapel, would you remain silent?"

"No! Of course not!"

Alan's grin came through loud and clear. "I thought not."

"Okay. I see. And, please forgive me if I misspoke. I know that there are many different kinds of furs who all take the name of 'Christian'. But this is only my second experience with your variety."

"Really? That's sad."

"Tell me about it."

"Who's the other?"

"Guy I met online a few years back. He doesn't live around here, more's the pity. Pretty conservative mostly, but I swear to you he'd make a great Wiccan!"

"Heh. That's a novel thought. Did you ask him about it?"

"Yes. But he's content with Christianity. The way he approaches it, though, I can't fault him."

"I'd like to meet him some time."

"I think you'd get along great."

"Most likely. Well, I need to go. Got a call to make on Ms. Wylde's behalf."

"Right. Take care. And please know that I really appreciate what you've done. I won't forget."

Alan had considered calling Karl, but discarded the idea quickly. Knowing what he did, if the big wolverine were on paw when a group of furs offered menace to Wendy, the results likely would be messy and unpleasant. The last thing any of them needed was for Karl to scatter body parts all over the landscape. But having a law officer there might have more of a calming effect on the crowd.

_Mobs_, he thought to himself, _are stupid, dangerous, panicky, and unstable. What we need is some way to defuse their anger. _

Of course, it would be helpful if he had some idea of _why_ they thought Ms. Wylde was a necromancer. That befuddled him.

The conversation with the sheriff was short and to the point. He assured the pastor that he would get a deputy out to the Inn by six that night.

Alan had to look in his PA for the number of the Inn, since the new phone books weren't out yet. He read it off and punched it into the phone.

##

Ellen picked up the pawset by the foyer on the fourth ring. "Ash Creek Inn."

"Hello, Ms. Wylde?"

"No, this is Ellen Vison. Do you wish to speak with Ms. Wylde?"

"Please."

"Hang on." She hit 'HOLD' and went to the kitchen. The vixen had turned the music back up, and it was highly unlikely that she had even heard the phone ringing. Sure enough, when Ellen got there, Wendy was swaying side to side in time with the disco beat pounding out of the speakers, and stirring a bowl of batter to the same meter. Ellen reached over and turned the sound way down.

Wendy spun around and blinked at her. "What?"

"Phone."

"Oh. Who is it?"

"Crud. I didn't ask. Some guy."

Wendy wiped her paws and picked up the extension. "Hello?"

"Ms. Wylde? This is Alan Grey. I'm the pastor at Mercy Chapel. I know we haven't been formally introduced, and I wish I could be calling under better circumstances, but I have some information that you need to be aware of."

Wendy's stomach did a little flip. "Is this about Martin?"

"Huh?"

"Martin O'Musca! Is he okay?"

"Why … yes, he is. In fact, he's home now. He's doing great. Why do you ask?"

"Oh. Okay." _I guess Mac was on the level about Martin being all better._ For some reason she'd been a little fuzzy on the details of that meeting. "I don't know. Intuition must have misfired or something."

"Ah … right. But that's not why I called."

"Okay, why _did_ you call?"

"One of the men in my congregation talked to me earlier and told me about a group of … well, I guess you'd call them fanatics. I can't say offpaw that they're cultists, but they didn't sound like a reasonable bunch from what he said."

"And this has what to do with me?"

"Well … I know you're going to think this sounds odd, but he thinks they mean to target you for some kind of violence tonight."

Her stomach flipped again, much more insistently. "What? _Why?_"

"Evidently, they think you are practicing magic, and they feel they have to stop you, or make an example of you, or run you off. I'm not sure which."

"_Magic?_ Sonuva_bitch_!"

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Oh. Um, sorry Reverend. You caught me off guard there."

Ellen gave her a searching look and said, "What is it?"

He chuckled. "Perfectly understandable. If you don't mind my asking, do you have any idea why they would get that notion? That you are some kind of sorceress, I mean?"

"He… Heck, no. I don't even believe in that stuff."

Ellen reiterated her question, with a bit more force.

Alan said, "Very odd."

"That's one word for it. You think I should call the cops?" She had to wave Ellen off and mouthed, "_Tell you in a minute_."

"I already did. A sheriff's deputy will be out there inside two hours. According to my source, the … group that named you is supposed to be there after eight. Tonight."

_Damn! What the bloody hell is __this__ all about? I don't have __enough__ problems?_ "Okay. Thank you. I appreciate your concern. After eight, you said?"

"_What's_ after eight?" Ellen demanded. "_Tell_ me something!"

"That's right," answered the pastor. "The deputy will be equipped with riot gear, just in case."

"Good. And thank you. Again." _At least the early diners will be gone by then._ At that point something else occurred to her, and she smiled. _And Conner will be here. _

"You're welcome. I truly hope it's a false alarm." He paused a moment in consternation. "If it is, though, that means whoever they _are_ targeting won't have any protection. I hadn't thought of that."

"Ooo! That's right. What do we do if they don't show here?"

Ellen was hopping back and forth with impatience. _"Who? What? When?"_

Alan considered the question briefly. "Eh. I'll call the sheriff back and give him my thoughts on that. He probably already has a contingency plan, though." _At least, I certainly hope so._

"Okay. I hope it's just a misunderstanding. But whatever happens, I'll have my … um, a friend here."

"You mean Miss Vison?"

"No, I'll make da … um, make sure she _won't_ be here. I meant Conner von Trapp, that hunting guide that saved Martin. He's dining at the café this evening."

"Ah! Mr. von Trapp! Good. He struck me as being extraordinarily capable."

"Yep. That's a good way of putting it." _Capable in more ways than you know, Bub._

"Very well. I'd like to think this will all come to nothing, but it pays to be forewarned, just in case. I hope you have a pleasant, and _uneventful_, evening."

"Thanks, Reverend."

"Just call me Alan. Titles give me a rash."

She snickered and said, "Okay, then, thank you, _Alan_."

Ellen was near to bursting with frustration. _**"Who's Alan?"**_

Wendy said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. Turning to Ellen, she said, "You got a bee in your bonnet, girl?"

"If! You! Don't! Tell! Me! What! That! Was! All! About! …"

"Sure," she laughed. "Have a seat. I'll fill you in."

##

_** 8:08pm **_

Sheriff Ashton Marten pulled the cigarette lighter from its slot and fired up another cheroot as he negotiated the turns of the narrow road with one paw on the wheel. This action earned him a disapproving look (which he ignored) from the deputy, who was riding shotgun. That canine very pointedly rolled his window down halfway, the night's chill notwithstanding, but the taciturn marten ignored that too.

The sheriff had a deep appreciation for the benefits of a peaceful community, and he worked very hard to make sure things stayed that way. The invasion of the Knights in recent times, with their assaults, murders, kidnappings, scare tactics, and other mayhem had put him seriously off his feed, but they were gone now, and things had returned to normal. Addison County had benefited from this hard-nosed mustelid's being in that position for the last eleven years. He had no intention of allowing tonight's events to get out of paw.

However, things had not really gone his way thus far.

Upon his questioning Duane and learning of the proposed meeting place for the vigilantes, he and two deputies had staked out the shop … and come up empty-pawed. Either the group had gotten wind of the surveillance, or decided to meet elsewhere, or (and this was his hope) simply changed their minds about taking the law into their own paws. But he wasn't able to locate Blake Beagle or any members of his family, and that _did_ worry him. He'd known Blake for a long time, and had _never_ liked his holier-than-thou attitude or the way he tended to stick his nose in other folks' affairs. When one of the deputies had gone to the house where Duane had told him the group met, it was quiet and dark, with no cars in the driveway.

Not good.

Now, while Sheriff Marten, in his _official_ capacity, respected the various organized faiths in the area, he was pretty much non-religious in his own leanings. He figured that if there was some all-powerful being running the show, he'd be best served by tending to business and making sure things didn't get out of line. Beyond that, he wasn't really interested. The law was the law, and furs in his county better abide by it.

So, having come up short on the front end of the action, he had loaded up his deputies and was en route to Ash Creek Inn, a brooding frown pasted on his face.

##

_** 9:10pm **_

Sandee Grey was the unofficial, but nevertheless very effective, coordinator of aid and support for any member of Mercy Chapel who had run afoul of the less pleasant side of Providence. The congregation was pretty unstructured, and while many of the furs took it in turn to serve in a diaconal capacity, there was no 'Board of Deacons' as such. She had reflected on this fact with mild frustration more than once, but the membership tended to fluctuate a good bit, and it would be hard to establish anything really long-term. And since she did have such a big heart for the mission, she never stayed frustrated for long.

This evening, after getting her youngest two off to bed, she had spent half an hour on the phone with three of the more well-off families in the church. A new member, a single mother with two daughters, had let slip to her Bible study partner that they were trying to decide between paying the rent and buying enough staples to last the rest of the month. The news had quickly found its way to Sandee, and she shortly arranged to have the necessary foodstuffs delivered anonymously.

For the last twenty minutes, she had shared the study with her husband, who was going over some information pertaining to a conference he wanted to attend in January. She was working on a new quilt pattern, and coloring in the various shapes she had sketched out. They chatted about nonessentials, just enjoying each other's company, but it hadn't escaped Alan's attention that Sandee had been growing increasingly restless throughout the evening. Finally he flipped off the desk lamp and turned to face her.

"Something bothering you, dear?"

She looked back at him, blinking. "Bothering me? No, not, um … not … Well … yes, I guess so, now that you mention it."

"Anything I can help with?"

She gave a small sigh and put down her sketch pad. "Beats me. I've just got this … well, this … I don't know, _need_ to pray for Ms. Wylde. Almost like a sending. Funny, huh?"

Alan's hackles jumped erect. "What about?"

She looked at him, the tension in his voice alarming her. "Uh … nothing specific. Just that she could use some protection. Why, do you know something I should know?"

Quickly, he recounted the salient facts Duane had told him earlier. "I passed it on to the sheriff, and more or less put it out of my mind, but maybe that was wrong." He rolled his chair over next to her and took her paw. "Ms. Wylde might need all the prayer cover she can get. You start, I'll call over there again to see how things are going, and then I'll join you."

##

_** 9:45pm **_

Conner stretched his long legs out in front of the sofa and contemplated the crackling flames in the library fireplace with a grin. His right paw rested on his very satisfied tummy; his left arm was around Wendy's shoulders, as she rested against his chest. He wiggled his toes in the radiant heat and observed, "You know, a fellow could get used to this."

She reached out a little and stroked the back of his right paw. "If you're looking for an objection from me, you'll have a long wait."

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "I wish the cops would just leave. It doesn't look like that tip was anything more than a rumor, anyway." His grin widened. "And I haven't had my dessert yet."

"But you had two helpings of … oh. _That_ dessert." She looked up at him, returning his grin. "Yeah, having that preacher call back all concerned the way he did kinda worried me for a minute, but I think we can call it a false alarm." She disengaged herself and sat up. Conner followed her with his eyes as she rose and walked to the door. "Be right back."

"I like the sound of that."

She left the door open a bit when she slipped out. Conner settled back into the chair and mulled over the events of the last few weeks. He considered himself to have lucked into the real deal with Wendy. He still wasn't quite sure he believed that a lady who _looked_ that good could _cook_ that good. He'd never run across the combination before. Plus, she was no sissy. He'd had the standard military training in unarmed combat, and considered himself a pretty good fighter, but he hadn't been able to lay a paw on her the one time they'd sparred.

_Plus, she's rich. Well, relatively speaking. If you can call that an advantage._ He still hadn't decided how he really felt about that…

Wendy went to the foyer where Sheriff Marten and Deputy Craine had set up their stake-out.

"Good evening, gentlefurs. How goes it?"

"I'll tell ya how it goes," responded the deputy. "I got dragged away from supper, with my folks here visitin' from Rochester, to cool my heels on a hard seat in the dark, waitin' for somebody to show up who never did. That's how it goes."

The Sheriff tipped his hat back a little, gave him a hard stare, and said, "Shaddup."

Wendy was all sympathy. "I'm so sorry you're evening was ruined! And you're right. It doesn't look like anyone's gonna show. I'd say you ought to just pack up and go back home to your families."

"It don't work that way, ma'am." Sheriff Marten got out another of the thin, black cigars and chomped on it. Wendy had made her no-smoking policy quite clear, but she had no objection to his chewing one, so he did. "We got the call, we have to treat it as a viable threat."

"But there's no one out there! Come on, we'll be fine. I promise I'll call you if anything weird happens. Besides, Conner's got a gun."

"Yeah, I saw that piece he carries. Heard about it from the coroner. He still got it loaded with those high-K slugs?"

"Ah … beats me. I don't know what a 'high-K' is, so I can't say."

The sheriff snorted. "Oh, well. I imagine you're right. C'mon, Craine, let's call in the other two and get back to the jailhouse."

"Hallelujah. Three hours late."

"And can the 'tude, boy. Don't need none o' your lip."

The deputy made no rejoinder. They collected their things and left.

##

The two squad cars, loaded with officers of the law, rolled quickly down the long drive and turned south toward New Haven. As they sped past the fringe of the wood, many pairs of hooded eyes marked their progress. When the last echoes of engine noise had faded, those eyes turned toward the Inn.

"They left sooner than we'd thought."

"Yes, Brother, it looks like the Lord is at work in our favor. Now we have time to get everything set up right and proper." The party, dark-cloaked and silent, slowly made their way through the bare trees, their footfalls completely muffled in the sodden leaves.

##


	7. Chapter 2 Judgment Part C

**_Chapter Two – Judgment – Part C_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Tuesday 11 October 2016 – 10:48pm **_

Alan shrugged into his overcoat and buttoned it securely. The forecast for tonight called for 'partial clearing and much colder' with temperatures falling into the minus-ten range: heavy frost in low-lying areas, and the probability of some ice on the bridges. Nasty weather to be driving in, but he really didn't feel as if he had a choice.

He'd decided not to wake Sandee. She'd had a long, difficult day, and needed her rest. But he'd found he simply _could not_ get to sleep. The urgent need to attend to business out at Ash Creek wouldn't let him be, especially after no one answered when he'd phoned.

_At least the rain stopped._ He jammed a thick hat down over his ears and headed out the door. It was a twenty-minute drive up to the Inn, and he prayed the whole way.

##

_** 11:05pm **_

"Is the base firm?"

"Yes, Brother Bays."

"Good." With a motion he called to two of the others. "Bring it over and set it into the mortise."

It took both of the furs to carry and set the object, but when they were done a large cross, maybe five meters high, stood on Wendy's front lawn.

##

"Oohhhhhhhh, yes. Right … there. Oh … that's it."

Wendy, as contented as she'd been in quite some time, snuggled in closer to Conner's chest as the claws of his right paw stroked her back under the bedcovers.

His sharp ears picked up what sounded like a muffled clatter, and he stopped.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "What is it?"

"Thought I heard somethin'. Lay still a minute."

Her heart immediately picked up speed as all the fears and apprehensions from earlier in the day came back full force.

He caught it again, and this time Wendy heard it as well, and he eased out of the bed and over to the curtain. "Good thing you decided to use this front room," he whispered. "Walls in this place are so thick, we'd not have heard a thing in one of the others."

"Who's out there? Can you see?"

"Oh, I can see all right. They ain't takin' any great pains _not _to be seen. Looks like they put up a cross out there."

"You have _got_ to be shitting me!"

"Come see for yourself." He left the window and began putting his clothes back on. "We'll put a stop to it in short order, though," he said, his voice grim.

Wendy stared at the furs out front. Most of them were milling around the cross, apparently tying things to it. She couldn't make out details. "Those jerks! I'm calling the sheriff back."

"Yeah, you do that." Conner buckled on his holsters. "He might even have somethin' left to arrest by the time he gets here."

He was buttoning his shirt when Wendy said, "The phone's dead."

That raised his eyebrows for a second, followed shortly by a lowering frown. "Sonsabitches. They cut the lines, I bet. Wonder if you got any power."

Thinking quickly, Wendy hopped into the bathroom and closed the door. It had no windows. Flicking the light switch produced no change in the darkness, and she swore bitterly. Opening the door, she came back to the entrance to the room and said, "No, dammit. My PA's downstairs, though, so I can still call the law on 'em."

He nodded to himself. "Cool. You go get it, make the call, then stay put. I'm gonna go have a little chat with those idiots."

"The hell I will! I'm coming with you!"

He sighed, having more than half expected that response. "Oh, all right. But put some clothes on first, okay?"

##

Alan's sense of unease had grown steadily with the passing kilometers. As he reached the Meadow and turned into the long drive, his headlights flashed onto a group of dark-clad furs a dozen meters or so in front of the house, and he braked hard. _I shoulda brought the mobile. I shoulda brought the mobile. I shoulda brought the mobile…_

##

"Brother Bays! Who's that?"

"Probably another sinner. Make ready, children."

Three of the furs had come armed and all of them brought their weapons to bear in the direction of vehicle.

##

"That's right, deputy. I'd say around ten of them. …" She glanced over at Conner as he walked past her toward the front door. "Okay, we'll, um, try to stay out of their way until you get here. But please hurry. I really don't want a firefight in my front yard." She flipped her PA closed and hurried after the tall wolf, pulling on a knit shirt over her head.

At the door they both stopped and peered out at the scene in the yard.

Conner spoke first. "They ain't here to welcome you to the neighborhood, that's for sure."

"I hadn't thought they were."

"See those cans off to the right?"

She squinted. "Yeah. Three of 'em?"

"Uh-huh. I'll lay you fifty to one they're full of gas. Or maybe kerosene."

"Shit! You think so?"

"Yep. They may be amateurs, or may be not, but either way it appears like they want to be thorough." He looked over at her in the dark. "And you're sure you don't have _any_ idea why they think you're some kind of voodoo lady?"

"None whatsoever."

He noticed headlights down at the end of the drive. "Somebody comin'. That the sheriff, you think?"

"Huh. I doubt it. I just got off the phone with them less than two minutes ago. And, look, he stopped."

"Come on. Let's go around to the north-side door and flank 'em. This is getting interesting."

##

Alan saw the glint of his headlights reflecting off at least two gun barrels, and started to feel decidedly uncomfortable about this whole mess. He opened the door and got out, taking a few steps away from the car, just in case they made up their minds he'd make a good target. The waxing gibbous moon was still behind the scudding clouds, but it was far from pitch dark. If there were any cats or raccoons in the group, they'd spot him just fine as soon as he turned off the lights.

##

One in the group called down to Alan. "Who are you, and what do you here, interfering with the Lord's business?"

_Yep. It's them, all right._ "Alan Grey. And as far as that goes, I'm here on the Lord's business myself."

Some of them muttered among themselves. "Grey? Isn't he a preacher?" "Yeah, what's he doin' here?" "Reckon he come to help?" "Don't seem likely, or he'd have said somethin' sooner." "Oughta have him come on up so we can talk."

Bays called, "Are you a minister of the Word?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then you have nothing to fear here. Turn off your lights and come up."

It looked as if the armed furs lowered their weapons. He heaved a relieved sigh and went back to the car, reaching in and flipping off the lights. Then he trotted up the drive.

##

Conner stayed low as he peeked around the north corner of the porch.

Wendy asked, "What are they doing now?"

"The car turned its lights off. I think whoever was in it is walking up the drive." He gave the large bushes in front of the house a quick look and said, "I'm gonna get a little closer to hear 'em better. Be right back."

She placed a concerned paw on his shoulder. "Just you don't get shot, okay?"

"Hey, I'm pretty well attached to this pelt of mine. I frown on it gettin' perforated." And he melted into the deep shadow under the bushes.

##

Alan stopped some four or five meters from the group. "Charlie Bays, is that you?"

"So it is, preacher. And what brings you out here so late?"

Eyeing the form of the cross behind them, he replied, "I'm here because I couldn't sleep and felt a leading of the Holy Spirit to come. One might ask the same of you and yours."

"We are here to see justice done."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"There's a witch living in that house. We aim to see her confess her evil ways and convert."

"You mean Ms. Wylde?"

"I do."

"I see." He thought hard for a few seconds. "And you think intimidating her with this old purist tactic is going to convince her to convert?"

"Oh, she'll convert," piped up a shrill voice. "One way or another."

The leader insisted, "She must be shown the error of her ways. It is our righteous duty."

"Uh-huh. Well. I haven't met her personally, so I can't make a judgment call. But how, um … not to sound like an old movie, but how do you know she's a witch?"

A short figure pushed to the front of the group, and shrilled, "She as much as told me herself!"

Alan barely kept himself from laughing out loud. The words were different, but the inflection screamed of 'turned me into a newt'. He said, "Really? She told you she was practicing magic?"

"She told me she had a familiar spirit! It's the same thing! She's dangerous! She's got to be …"

"Please, Sister," said Charlie Bays as he laid a paw on her shoulder. "Don't get yourself so excited. We must have the examination first."

Another one said, "Brother, you know Sister Hughrena's word is good! If she says the witch has a familiar, then she has a familiar."

"Yes, Ben, I know. But we have to do this in order, rightly dividing the Word."

Now, one thing that got Alan's ire up quicker than most others was to have some self-proclaimed modern-day Moses mishandle Scripture for his own ends. He took a couple of steps closer and said, "Do you know the Shemah?"

Charlie looked back up at him and said, "What?"

"The Shemah? Do you know it?"

"I … uh … That sounds … uh …"

"Maybe you know it better like this." He stood a little straighter and proclaimed, " 'Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.' " He paused for a second and asked, "Does that ring any bells?"

"Oh! Oh, sure. That's the first commandment. Right. But … why did you call it that?"

"Because that's its name. That's what the Jewish experts in the Law would tie in little boxes on their sleeves, or wear in a headband."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah." Charlie seemed a little uncertain what that was all about. The others had crowded close to hear. "So what?"

"Do you know the second commandment?"

"Of course." Charlie seemed to be on more recognizable ground. "As our Lord Jesus said, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' That's no secret."

"Then is _this_," and Alan indicated the big cross, "how you go about loving your neighbor?"

"Now see here, pastor, you know nothing of the facts in this …"

"It doesn't sound like you do either. Have you even spoken with Ms. Wylde? Have you gotten her side of the story?"

Hughrena screamed at him, "She ain't _got_ a side! She's a _witch!_"

He stepped forward again and leaned down into her face. "How do you know?"

"Because she told me she talks with _ferals_! Nobody does that except witches! It's a familiar spirit, and it needs to be found, and caught, and burned!" Alan could see the flecks of spittle flinging from her mouth as she ranted.

"Did you see it?"

"I didn't _have_ to see it! She said …"

"If you didn't see it, you are admitting that you witnessed nothing."

"But _she __said_ …"

"How do you know she wasn't just jerking your chain? Just having a bit of fun at your expense?"

A few in the group started muttering at that. This fur was making a disturbing amount of sense. Some of them were no longer so sure of their plans for Wendy.

"If you gave such a reaction in front of her, it's easy to understand how she might have done just that."

"She's a _witch_ and she's gonna _pay_!"

A sharp clicking sound was heard, then a deep voice spoke from behind the group. "Don't nobody twitch a whisker."

Alan glanced up into the pool of darkness between the cloaked figures and the house. A tall fur stood facing them, holding a pair of very large pistols.

He spoke. "I saw that three of ya were armed. Drop 'em. Now."

The rifle and two shotguns were placed on the ground.

He caught Alan's eye. "Reverend, you okay?"

"That you, Conner?"

"Ayah. You wanna come on over here." It wasn't a question.

Alan trotted around the group and stood to Conner's left, his expression a mixture of relief and chagrin. "Looks like you didn't need any backup after all."

"Eh. We'll see. You did a nice job of distracting 'em so I could get closer." He nodded to the assembled furs. "Take off them cloaks."

"But it's cold out here!"

"Shoulda thought of that before you trespassed. Lose 'em."

The group complied, slowly and hesitantly, but without exception.

"Now all of you, turn around and face away from the house. Good. Now lie down on the grass, face-down."

Ms. Werminn balked. "But it's cold and wet!" She crossed her arms. "I won't do it."

Conner calmly put a slug into the ground between her feet. The unexpected report was unbelievably loud, and all the furs jerked. She yelped and hit the dirt.

"Very good. Now that we're all nice and comfy, I think you'll be interested to know that the sheriff should be along in the next few minutes."

Two of those on the ground startled visibly at that news. Conner had been watching for just such a reaction, and nodded to himself. "That surprised you, I see. You thought cutting the wires to the house would cut us off and turn you loose to hold your little bonfire." He smirked slightly. "What a bunch of morons. I don't know why I was worried about being able to handle your ilk." He spared half a glance for Alan and said, "Preacher, why don't you go on inside and get warm? No sense in both of us being cold."

"If it's all right with you, I think I'll stay here. I've got on much warmer clothing than you do." He indicated the furs on the ground, laid out like so many logs. "Besides, I'm curious to hear what the sheriff has in mind for charges."

"Oh, I can tell you that. Malicious mischief, vandalism, trespassing, conspiracy, assault, and most likely some felony weapons charges as well. Use of a deadly weapon in the commission of a felony, that sort of thing. And that doesn't even touch on the possible hate-crime charges. It'll be very interesting."

One of the males started to sob. "My wife! My-m-my kids! What'll they d-do?"

Alan walked slowly over to that fur. He was the farthest one to the right. "Randall? Randall Scrabbus?"

The canine looked up at him in shock. "You know me?"

"Sort of." He squatted down next to the prone figure. "I've seen you in the hardware store a few times. But I didn't know you had a family."

"Well, preacher," he whispered, "I'll tell you a secret."

Alan leaned closer.

"I don't."

The wiry canine rolled quickly, knocking Alan over then grabbing him and pulling him to his feet. Alan felt the muzzle of a pistol in his side as Randall hollered, "You drop those guns or the preacher-fur gets it!"

The other furs on the ground took a few seconds to realize what was going on. Charlie Bays said, "Randall, have you lost your mind? You can't shoot a minister of the Word!"

"Watch me." He was slowly backing away, holding Alan close.

Conner was not impressed. "Scrabbus, if that's your name, I'm giving you six seconds to let him loose and pitch that pop gun away, before I put a bullet in one of your eyes. And you can bet there's no way I can miss at this range."

"You're bluffing!"

"Three seconds."

"Forget it! You can't foo-HOOOOoooooooo…"

All the air left his body. Alan had felt a strong shock pass through the dog, and then the arm holding him went flaccid. The tall squirrel took that opportunity to spin out of his grasp, knocking the pistol away. Randall Scrabbus, still searching for some way to draw a breath, fell over on his side, revealing Wendy standing behind him.

Alan was trembling rather more than he was comfortable with. He stared at the vixen with evident respect. "What'd you do to him?"

"I put my foot through his fuckin' kidney, that's what!"

Conner chuckled. "Nice move, Babe."

Wendy picked up the pistol and then took Alan's arm and steered him back over toward the house. "Let's just stay inside until the cops get here, okay?"

Alan gave her a weak grin. "Fine by me."

She grinned back. "I appreciate you coming out here like this, Rev … um, Alan. But there are _some_ people you just can't be nice to."

"Yeah, I know. Call it my failing. I usually err on the side of wanting to believe that a fur's motives are basically sound. I should know better, living in a sinful world."

As they mounted the stairs to the porch, they heard Conner saying, "And the next one of you louses that so much as farts is gonna get a new nickname. Something along the lines of 'Gimpy', or maybe 'Noseless Ned'. I hope I'm making myself clear…"

##

_** Wednesday 12 October 2016 – 1:15am **_

The officers of the law had shown up, cuffed the perps, taken lots of names, and asked Wendy and Conner and Alan about six thousand questions. It took two trips to get all the zealots carted off the property. Charlie Bays had the downfallen look of one utterly defeated. Randall Scrabbus had to be carried. And Hughrena Werminn screamed and squealed about her rights being violated the entire time. One of the deputies eventually gagged her.

But at last it was quiet, and Wendy watched through a front window as the squad cars' taillights disappeared.

"Ahem."

She turned to look at the tall wolf.

He cocked his head to one side. "Not much in the way of a quiet evening, huh?"

She shook her head, then treated him to a prodigious yawn. "And I was up pretty early this morning, too."

"I got news for you, Babe. This _is_ 'this morning.' "

"Okay, have it your way, yesterday morning." She leaned back, popping a couple of vertebrae. "Either way, I have to get up in about six hours, and that bed has my name on it."

"I wonder if you'd mind answering a question first."

"Oh, Conner, come on! I hate guessing games, it's late-late-late, and I'm all in. Can't it wait?"

"Just tell me how long you've been talking to ferals, and the bed's all yours."

She stared at him. Suddenly, she wasn't all that sleepy.

He continued, "I overheard what that idiot bitch was saying, that you told her you talked to ferals. Did you really tell her that?"

"… Yyyyyes. I did."

"And have you?"

"… Um … Well, yes. Yes, I have." Her chin firmed up and she took on a defiant pose. "So do you think I'm a freak now, too?"

He laughed. "Hardly. I just thought we might compare notes."

Her eyes widened and a paw stretched out toward him. "Wha… Buddid… Do you … you mean you do it, too?"

He nodded. "I'll have to tell you about Lin sometime soon."

"Lin? Who's Lin?"

"Lin is a long story, and not one I feel like getting into right now. For the record, I'm pretty bushed myself, and I think your 'bed' idea was a good one. But I did have to sort of – um – clear the air." And he turned and started walking toward the stairs.

Wendy hurried after him. "Whoa! Wait up! What the heck's a Lin? …"

##


	8. Chapter 2 Judgment Part D

**_Chapter Two – Judgment – Part D_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Wednesday 12 October 2016 – 3:25am **_

Stealth technology, and the various items of military hardware using it, had proliferated in the first decade of this century. Everybody wanted to get into the act, and every little two-bit, picayune, starving, third-world dictatorship had at least one stealth fighter by 2010. That state of affairs had resulted in five minor wars and a good dozen major cross-border skirmishes in equatorial Africa, Southeast Asia, and the fringes of the former Soviet Union.

But then, in 2011, Marcus Albion at the University of Quebec had discovered the principle behind deep-scan radar, and suddenly all those stealth toys were just so many high-priced weapons platforms. The new radar systems were smaller, more robust and less expensive than their forebears, and _obscenely_ accurate. A good technician could follow the flight of a house sparrow at three miles, and tell you whether he still had all his tail feathers. And military aircraft? Please.

However … the one thing the new radar still could not do was see through the landscape. Flying 'under the beam' remained the most popular way to avoid detection, and so the North American Air Force had bent its energies in that direction.

The trick with using a helicopter is to make it fast enough to get to its objective before the enemy can react, maneuverable enough to dodge trees, dunes and power lines, and quiet enough to get really close before they hear it. Speed, of course, required power, and power (by conventional wisdom) made noise. So the designers used baffles and mufflers and shields and so forth, which by their very nature tended to detract from the power output. It was a vicious and frustrating tradeoff. Nevertheless, some really impressive advances had been made, and in 2014 they put the new, improved, modified VCV-22E into service. It became the fighter-transport of choice for all branches of the military that had need of its rather unique insertion/extraction abilities.

But they hadn't been resting on their laurels. Not at all. Thus, the events of this night.

The parade ground behind the armory was quiet. For that matter, the entire city was quiet. Even at the height of the business day, Montpelier had an easy-going, laid-back way about it. One might say that it took a lot to get the inhabitants exercised. But here, at this wee hour, it was absolutely still. The hoarfrost could be seen to glisten on the thin, dry remains of the grass, if one stood in the right spot to catch the reflection of the single light over the rear entrance.

Watchful eyes scanned the skyline, patient, checking the occasional timepiece.

The craft was almost over the yard before anyone heard it, and even when audibly pinpointed, it remained unaccountably invisible. But it did occlude the starfield, and as it settled quickly to earth, it kicked up quite a furious little storm of twigs, leaves, straw, and icy dust. The huge rotors made hardly a whisper as they coasted, and the engine whine was so muted that the sergeant doubted anyone outside the compound could even hear it.

A door opened in the side, and dim, red light spilled out, followed closely by two dark figures. They leapt to the ground and ran toward the armory, making it across the intervening thirty-odd meters in seconds, notwithstanding the numerous parcels they carried. As the door opened to receive them, the chopper's rotors kicked back on, and it lifted straight up at an appalling acceleration.

In four seconds, all was quiet again. And in several positions around the parade ground, sniper teams began storing their gear.

The taller of the two figures placed one of his bags on the floor and shook the sergeant's paw. "Hello again. Sorry to keep you all up so late."

"It's no problem, sir. We're on graveyard tonight anyway, and this is nice change from the usual boredom. Welcome back, Mr. Evans."

##

_** 7:35am **_

Lin came to within ten meters of the edge of the wood, and sat, examining the north face of the Inn. _The boss is in there with that female. Wonder if they're planning to mate again?_ The fact that furs practiced mating whether the female was in season or not often made him curious. It seemed to him to be such a tremendous waste of energy.

His ears flicked around when he heard motion in the low brush off to the right. He could tell that whatever was approaching either didn't know he was there (unlikely, since he was upwind) or didn't care that it was coming close to a dire wolf. Lin, in the supreme confidence of the large predator, decided to wait and see what animal could have such temerity.

In measured steps, the royal feral fox eased out from below a bramble and came over to face Lin. The wolf immediately got to his feet.

_[ [ High One! Forgive me! I didn't know you were here. ] ]_

The fox settled down on his haunches and cocked his head over to one side. _[ [ __You are fully Melded.__ ] ]_

Lin gave his head the slight downward inclination of respect he owed the fox._ [ [ Yes, High One. ] ]_

_[ [ __Does your counterpart know of the danger he faces in mating with this little one? They-who-hate have not gone. They yet hunt.__ ] ]_

He gave the mental equivalent of a shrug._ [ [ He knows. I have told him I didn't approve. He either does not understand or does not care. But it matters little. If they-who-hate come, he will kill them. ] ]_ His matter-of-fact tone mirrored Conner's opinions to the last nuance.

[ [ _Yet they-who-hate are still numerous._ ] ]

_[ [ I told him that, too. The boss seems to think most of them are gone. ] ]_

_[ [ __Yes, many are. But there were too many to know before, and now those that are left seek vengeance. The danger is great.__ ] ]_

_[ [ Are they prey to us, then? ] ]_

_[ [ __No. I have received a Word.__ ] ]_ Both the fox and the wolf made a brief, one-legged genuflection_. [ [ __The Word is to watch and protect. Nothing more. __] ] _

_[ [ With all due respect, High One, we do that already. ] ]_

_[ [ __Have patience, youngling. If we need to know more, another Word will come.__ ] ]_

_[ [ Yes, High One. ] ]_

As the fox turned to go, the wolf looked back at the house, listening with his mind. _[ [ High One? ] ]_

He stopped. _[ [ __Yes?__ ] ]_

_[ [ Why do they do that? ] ]_

_[ [ __Do what?__ ] ]_

_[ [ Mate like that, when the female is not in season. ] ] _He indicated the house with his snout. _[ [ They are doing it now. ] ]_

The fox sat again, and thought over his answer. _[ [ __Tell, me, young one, do you like to run?__ ] ]_

_[ [ Oh, yes, High One! I love to run! ] ]_

The fox's eyes took on a slight glow as he continued.

_Do you run_

_for the sheer, keening thrill of the wind_

_whispering, shouting_

_as it pushes back your ears?_

_Do you run_

_for the whiskery feel of the grass,_

_the shock of spraying snow,_

_the rhythm of your paws pounding earth,_

_as it rushes under you?_

_Do you run_

_to outpace the moon,_

_to laugh at the clouds,_

_to fly through wind and night?_

_Do you run,_

_knowing that you are power,_

_you are strength,_

_you are swift death to your prey,_

_and no one,_

_at his peril,_

_may hinder you?_

_[ [ Yes! Oh, **Yes!** ] ]_ The giant wolf would not have thought to put it in quite those terms, but it described precisely how he felt. _[ [ Oh, High One, it is the most wonderful feeling I know! ] ]_

_[ [ __And you run whether or not you seek prey?__ ] ]_

_[ [ Yes, High One! ] ]_

_[ [ __Then, there is your answer.__ ] ] _And he got to his feet to go.

Lin was mightily confused. _ [ [ I don't understand, High One. ] ]_

_[ [ __The way you think about running is the way they think about mating.__ ] ]_

_[ [ But… but… that doesn't make any sense! ] ]_

_[ [ __I know.__ ] ] _And he faded into the brush.

##

_** 11:15pm - elsewhere **_

The lone figure darted from alley to alley, keeping to the deeper shadows, even though no one was about. He'd been traveling for some time, his goal was almost within reach, and he had no intention of getting caught now.

_All these fucking warehouses look alike!_ He edged over to the corner, peering up at the number on the painted steel plate attached to the building. _Okay. Three to go. _He ran off down the side of the long structure.

In almost any large, metropolitan area, there will be an industrial zone filled with nondescript buildings whose façades offer no clue as to their purposes. This was a big city, and it had a big warehouse district, with dirty, faceless, gray-and-tan constructions covering many square kilometers. And this high degree of anonymity was very attractive to certain elements.

The speeding figure finally made it to the one he sought. He trotted around to the back, looking for the promised door, which he shortly found. He paused a few seconds to collect his thoughts and catch his breath, then he walked slowly up to the door, standing two paces from it with his paws angled out from his sides. He cleared his throat and softly sang the first few words of an old Western ballad.

The door opened. A short, dark fur looked out, glanced to both sides, and motioned for him to come in.

Inside, the building was pitch black, cold, and musty. They walked along a narrow hallway for half a minute, then went through another door and down three flights of (thankfully well-lit) metal stairs, passing a pair of armed guards at the bottom. Another short corridor brought them to a large common room, with several other narrow passages leading off from it.

The shorter fur nudged the new arrival and said, "He's over there at the table." Then he turned and went back the way they'd come.

There were three other furs in the room, besides the one he'd come to see, but they paid him not the slightest attention. Two of them were busily typing at late-model workstations, and the other was going through a report, making notes in its margins. The new fur shrugged out of his coat and took off his hat, revealing the tousled stripes of a raccoon. He walked over to the table and sat down across from the brooding fennec fox.

Hamad looked up at him, his eyes burning. "How many?"

"I've heard from Tallent, Wykov, and Moore. Moore has three with him, and Tallent one. Wykov had taken a slug in the leg, but managed to get out through a hidden door.

The fennec dropped his head again. "Six. Seven, counting you. That means your cell lost forty-one."

"And damn lucky we didn't lose 'em all."

Neither said anything else for a few minutes. Hamad's keen mind picked through the pieces of information, chose some to chew, discarded others.

"And no word from Welburnn?" It was as much a statement as a question.

"No. Don't know how many got away, or if any did. Their transmission just stopped, about two minutes before we got raided."

Hamad, at length, vented a long sigh. "Then that is all we can do. We will have to hide for a time. But I promise you this, my friend: we will find out who the mole was, and we will make his death a byword for anyone else who thinks of betraying us." His eyes grew distant. "He will take a very, very long time to die."

"So does that mean the hunt for Gamma is off, too?"

The fox's muzzle twitched, teeth clenching in frustration. "For now, Kevin. But not for long. We will rebuild, restock, and rejoin the hunt."

The raccoon reached across and gripped the other's paw. "Soon?"

"Soon."

. . .

. . .

. . .

**[Author's Notes: Hello, Gentle Reader. We've been going along at a pretty good pace for a while now, and I thought it time to take a breather. (That doesn't mean I won't be posting, though. Please don't think that. There is LOTS and LOTS of story left, and the vast majority of it is already written.) **

**I just wondered if there might be something on your mind, a question about the way things are going, or a comment you have concerning one or more of the characters. If that is the case, please feel free to leave a review. **

**I have recently enabled anonymous reviews, since someone mentioned to me that my Readers may not be actual members of FFnet. At any rate, I would be pleased to get some feedback. I know the story is being read. The hit counter says so. Just please know that it isn't necessary to lurk in the background. You may speak your mind freely. I won't bite.]**


	9. Chapter 3 Motives Part A

**_Chapter Three – Motives – Part A_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**No one has ever become poor by giving.**

_**- Anne Frank**_

##

_** Wednesday 12 October 2016 – 8:00am (sharp) **_

With more ill grace than either was willing to show, Lee and Debbye followed Michael Truefoot into the small conference room. He stopped and held the door, indicating two chairs at the table with one paw. They sat, and he closed the door and dropped into the chair across from them.

"This isn't fair, Michael," said Lee.

"I never said it was."

Debbye added, "We were supposed to have six days, Michael. Does this look like six days to you? Do you have any idea how hard it was to leave my children? Again? With them crying like that? _Again?_"

He sighed deeply and said, "I don't get to call all the shots, either. The judge decided to move the trial date up, and he has given me what I consider to be legitimate reasons for it. Are you aware that Niles Grosvenor is still at large?"

Both Evanses nodded.

"He was positively identified as the point-fur in a liquor store robbery Monday night. He had four others with him, and all were heavily armed. Do you remember when he killed those officers and escaped?"

They both nodded again.

"Well, at the time, he was in West Brattleboro down near the southern border. Now, an average criminal, or even an average non-criminal who was on the lam, would high-tail it out of state just as fast as he could. Grosvenor could have been in Massachusetts in twenty minutes, tops. He could have been out of the Northeast in a day, or in Canada in less than that. But he stuck around. The package store he hit was in Jackson Corner, not ten klicks from where we sit."

Debbye gasped.

Lee frowned and said, "So you think he's coming here? What purpose could that serve?"

"He might, as an outside possibility, try a jail-break. But we think some kind of terror attack would be much more likely, even logical, given his background. He ran a munitions supply operation for the Cartel back in '02, which is another reason we want him back. He's no stranger to mass destruction."

Lee sank back into his chair. "Uhboy."

"Right."

Debbye frowned in thought and asked, "He can't get to any of us in here, though, can he?"

"No, I'm pretty sure he can't. But the big boys at the DoD have informed me that they will have a few special agents here by the end of the day, just in case."

"Lovely."

"Actually, they like our setup. The part of the building where you stay most of the time dates back to the late nineteenth century …"

"Yeah, and it's certainly drafty enough to be convincing."

Michael gave Debbye a baleful eye. "Ahem. It dates from the nineteenth century, when they knew a thing or two about masonry. The walls are four feet thick, and granite. Unless Grosvenor can get his paws on a suitcase nuke, there isn't much he can do. And the DoD wants to be careful. So they're sending a couple of special teams. Lots of fancy surveillance gear and so forth, a lot like what they have at your parents' house, Debbye."

"Great." "Peachy."

"I can tell how convinced you are."

"We didn't ask for any of this, Michael."

"I know. And as I said before, I'm sorry. But we do what we have to do."

Debbye nodded. "We understand that," she answered as she took her husband's paw. "But we don't have to like it."

##

_** 2:00pm **_

Chris and Lee spent a minute or so, after they took their seats in court, to look over the defendants and their counsel. Chris leaned forward and got District Attorney Redd's attention.

"Yah?"

"What's up with the lawyers?" he whispered. "I don't recognize any of them. The Knights fire the other ones, or is this a different part of the same team?"

"Nope. Different team. Turns out Graeme Vulpexa, the one who started this mess by assaulting Miss Foxx, was related to none other than Alabama Senator Zeb Vulpexa."

"You're kidding!" said Chris. "Old 'Zap-'em Zeb'?"

"That's the one. Their family's got lots of old money. But either the first legal team got tired of fooling with such an obviously hopeless case, or the Vulpexa family figured they had no more stake in it since that young fool got himself killed, or the Senator decided it would be politically expedient to let it go. Whichever it was, he pulled their funding. This is a _much_ less expensive firm."

Lee gave vent to a low, mirthless laugh. "I'd think," he said, with a touch of bitterness, "that the Knights ought to be able to afford the best."

"Heh. Probably could have, before all their accounts were seized."

Lee blinked, then looked at Chris, who nodded and smiled. They both sat back in their chairs and crossed their arms.

##

_** 3:30pm **_

Karl had to stop his truck at the gate and speak to the door keeper through the intercom. After giving good evidence of his identity and intentions, the tall, wrought-iron gate swung silently inward. He eased slowly along the elegant brick drive up to the garage and parked in one of the spaces. Grabbing the long case off the rear seat, he walked briskly over to the elevator and pushed the button.

Two floors later, he stepped off into a long hall. There was a door at the far end, and one to either side about half-way down. He moved along to the one on the left and entered the room.

The area was fairly large, more than fifteen meters square, and the walls and ceiling were white, as was the aisle leading to the door. The rest of the floor was … unusual. The center was hardwood, a circle maybe four meters in diameter, but around it the floor passed through several different states. There was a section of high-pile carpet across the center from a big, wedge-shaped sandbox about half-a meter high. There was a highly-polished black area next to a space that looked a bit like a children's playground, with thick ropes and square wooden beams composing some low walls, bridges, and barriers. And next to that there was a shallow pool of water.

In the center of the hardwood, clad in a brief, white loincloth, a lean, gray canine figure was bent over backward into a 'span' position, his head thrown back, long muzzle pointed at the door. He opened his eyes and looked at Karl, then grinned. Smoothly he rose to stand, lean muscles rippling, and turned to greet his visitor.

"Gamma. It really is you."

"In the flesh."

"You're looking good. Been a long time."

"Too long, Richard." He stepped forward and shook the proffered paw. "I was relieved to find you still alive."

"And I hardly knew _what_ to think when I got your note."

"Yes, I suppose I have been keeping myself out of the loop. Overtly, that is."

The greyhound nodded. "You could say that." Cocking his head to one side, he asked, "So … how did you find me?"

The tall wolverine replied, "You cut quite a swath, not to press the pun too greatly. I figured out it was you when the other possibilities had been exhausted. And this 'hide in plain sight' gambit is consistent with your methods."

"Hmph. Well, maybe I'll have to take a page out of your book. You've had _everyone_ convinced you were dead. Or maybe rotting in some hell-hole of a prison somewhere. How'd you do it?"

"By paying attention to the details, initially. Though now I'm no longer quite the secret I was."

"Is that right?"

Karl gave him one short nod. "Some of the principals in my old division recently discovered that the rumors of my death had been greatly exaggerated, and if they know, there are sure to be others. I'll have to be relocating before too long."

"Huh. Well, you managed to lay low for a good seven or eight years. That's impressive for someone as recognizable as you are."

"For that matter, you didn't do too badly yourself. You must have been collecting your blood for months to be able to splash that much of it around your apartment."

"Yeah, you got me dead to rights on that one. So," he repeated, "how did you find me? And did anyone else figure it out?"

"Not to my knowledge. I checked your file last week, and it was still listed under 'Inactive, Presumed Dead'. Not quite written off, but pretty close, and it's been that way for the last several years."

"_You_ checked my file?"

Karl nodded again.

Richard shot him a quizzical look. "And just how did you manage to gain access to my file? The ISB let you come and go as you please?"

"That would be telling." He waved a paw around at their surroundings. "Seems you've done well for yourself. Is this all legit?"

The greyhound decided he wasn't going to get that bit of information out of his guest, at least not yet. He sighed, and said, "Yep. Every board and nail. I was well-off to begin with, as you know, and managed some effective trading in the commodities markets. Then, too, I've got my fencing school. And the occasional … commission."

"Right. About that: that's how I figured out it was you."

"Really? Do tell." He glanced around and padded over to one of the wooden beams. "Here, take a load off and fill me in."

"It was the Daugherty kidnapping that got me thinking it might be you." Karl joined his old friend on the beam. "Given the weapons you used, and the tactics employed in the recovery, I only knew of five furs besides myself who had the capability of pulling it off."

"Five? I must be slipping."

"Okay, _four_ would be more accurate. I could dismiss Sinclair out of paw. He's the best, but that's not his style."

"Got that right."

"I traced Leopold and Chang to the same outfit. They're in Australia, working for Morz Tann, secret service stuff."

"Yes," Richard agreed. "He has them both on exclusive retainer. But who are the other two?"

"Pranaty Srabinadajab is one."

The canine considered that and shrugged. "One might say so, under the right circumstances. She's not terribly subtle in her execution, though."

"I'll concede that point."

"And the last one?"

"Cranston Wilkes-Williams."

Richard was skeptical. "Has old Double-Dubya gotten that much better? I know I haven't seen him in over ten years, but still …"

"Yes, he has. He's either the second or third best curved-blade specialist alive. Depending on whether or not _you_ could take him."

"Hmm. I'd have to see that. I may just do that. He still based out of that decrepit heap in Wales?"

"Yes. Can't leave the old family pile. He's too much of a sentimentalist to be in that profession, if you ask me. It's going to get him killed eventually."

Richard didn't say anything to that. After half a minute, he asked, "So, you want to tell me why you came here?"

For an answer, Karl opened his case and removed two felt-wrapped objects. Pulling the covers off revealed a no-nonsense rapier and a mid-length dirk. He offered them to the canine, who examined them briefly.

"Nice blades. So you want a refresher in _rapier-main-gauche_?"

"I do. I've been concentrating on short blades almost exclusively for some years. Recently, for variety, I went through your forms. Or tried to. It wasn't that I'd forgotten them, but they didn't flow, didn't mesh, and I really felt the lack of coherence in my work. I decided that I never really had achieved a decent level of mastery. Knowing your specialties, I figured to get some training from the best."

"I'm flattered."

"So you'll do it?"

"Sure. As long as you pay the standard fee." He chuckled. "I may be easy, but I'm not cheap."

Karl pulled a wad of bills out of the lining of the case and passed them over. Richard riffled them, his eyebrows climbing. "How long are you planning to train?"

"Three days. It's all I've got at this time."

"This would cover a hell of a lot more than three days."

"Then you should make them count."

Richard stared at him for a long couple of minutes. "Gamma … what are you _really_ here for?"

"Training."

"And the object of the training?"

"Improvement."

"Level with me. There's something else, too."

"You're too flaming intuitive for your own good, you know that?"

Richard shook his head. "I need details. You know: the meat of the subject, the quintessential _pneuma _of the issue, the _raison d'être_. The whole nine yards, as it were."

"Fine. There's this femme that …"

"Ah. Of course." Richard nodded and got up. He went over to the weapons rack, chose two blades of his own, and returned to the center of the hardwood circle. "I understand completely."

"Thanks," said Karl, as he took up his position on the wood. "So, let's do it."

##

_** Friday 14 October 2016 – 7:15am **_

Wendy stirred and flopped one paw over to the other pillow. She felt around blearily for a few seconds before it registered that the space was empty, and cool. She rubbed both eyes and stretched, thinking, _We've really got to start the festivities earlier in the evening. This late-to-sleep and early-to-rise is a killer._

Her sharp ears picked up the sounds of someone moving about in the bathroom across the narrow Servants' Walk, and she caught the faint smell of the furwash Conner preferred. _A pox on morning furs anyway!_ she thought, and snuggled back into her nice, warm nest.

Several minutes later Conner came back into the Retiring Room, his suit coat over one arm and his tie looped around his neck. He leaned over and gave Wendy a quick peck on the top of her muzzle.

"I'll see ya this afternoon, unless something else comes up."

She gave him a sleepy smile and a wink. "You show up early enough, I'll see to it that something _does_ come up."

"Oooo! Naughty!" His grin stretched his face out. "_Now_ how am I supposed to concentrate on my testimony?"

"Oh, you'll muddle through." She blew him a kiss, and then yawned at him as he hurried to the door. "What's your rush? Court doesn't start till nine, does it?"

"No. But Judge Corpin has no sense of humor at all that I've been able to see, and you shoulda heard the way he lit into one of the defense attorneys for showing up late from lunch. That old hare can pin back a fur's ears with the best of 'em, and I don't fancy a taste, thanks just the same."

"Bwuhhh-ock, bock-bock-bock."

"Easy for you to say. You get to lounge around in bed. And I gotta go. See ya."

She did lie a-bed for a few more minutes, but soon decided there wasn't much chance of getting back to sleep. She opted for a shower instead.

##

_** 9:20am **_

Sitting in front of the workstation in her office, Wendy finished going over the weekend reservations for the next month, which exercise brought a satisfied smile to her face. _This keeps up and I'll be in the black again by springtime._ Not that she had any illusions of maintaining full occupancy during mid-winter. But she had all three rooms booked tonight, and if the flow of tourists remained steady at least through the holidays, she just might be able to pay Levi Fisher the rest of what she owed him.

Turning her attention to the list of prospective customers for the Café, she took a minute just to lean back and study it. For the next three months, Tuesday nights (the late spot), had been reserved by one fur. This bit of news had popped up in her e-mail the previous Monday, and she still didn't know what to think of it. The message, very succinct and business-like, had requested that time slot, and indicated that an electronic transfer of four hundred dollars in 'earnest' money had been made to her account. The only menu direction accompanying the message had been the word _hot_.

Originator: Karl Luscus.

_Well, _she decided eventually,_ no skin off my snout, I guess. It's his money. I don't mind a bit if he chooses to spread the wealth._ She tapped a few keys to confirm the reservations, and replied to the e-mail request in the affirmative. _Hot he wants, hot it will be._

##


	10. Chapter 3 Motives Part B

**_Chapter Three – Motives – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Friday 14 October 2016 – 3:30pm **_

Tygon guided their large vehicle skillfully as they negotiated the winding back roads. He contemplated the rolling scenery appreciatively and commented, "You know, it's really beautiful here."

"Mm-hmm. Even if we have missed the main 'leaf season', this is still lovely."

"Sorry about that," he replied, somewhat chagrined. "The book tour …"

"I know, sweetheart." Victoria patted his arm. "It couldn't be helped, you being such a big-name draw. But I'm very glad you agreed to this vacation," she said, leaning toward the big cat.

"Well, I never _was_ able to deny you anything," the striped lion said, nuzzling his wife's auburn headfur.

"Can I drive?" the Maine Coon Cat asked impishly.

"Absolutely not," Tygon answered, his muzzle still buried in Victoria's long, wavy hair.

"Then would you please do it?"

"Whoa!" Tygon exclaimed and steered them back onto the pavement, seeing that he had been heading directly for a tree.

"Thank you," Victoria said.

"Geez, couldn't you have warned me a little earlier?"

"I was early _enough_, wasn't I?" A grin adorned the cat's muzzle. Tygon decided not to answer and concentrated on the road instead.

After a few minutes he spotted the Inn's wide drive and slowed down.

"Are we there yet?" a voice from the back seat asked.

"In a minute, Sweety," Victoria said.

Tygon steered the SUV toward the Inn and parked it. As he stepped out and walked around the car, a beautiful vixen approached him.

"Hello," she said in a cheerful voice. "Welcome to Ash Creek Inn."

"Just a second," Tygon said and hurried around the car to let his wife out of it.

The vixen smiled as she watched that. "You must be the Panthera family," she said. "I'm Wendy."

"Pleased to meet you," Victoria said and accepted the paw Wendy offered. The cat wanted to say something else but she was interrupted by a scream of joy as the back door of the SUV flew open and an auburn flash shot out.

"Cinny!" Tygon called, but his daughter wouldn't listen. After six hours of almost uninterrupted driving she was too full of unspent energy to remain calm.

"Cinny!" Tygon called again. "Please come here!"

But it was of no use. The small feline ran all over the place, looking at various things for a short time before continuing to the next interesting item.

"Cinnamon Katarina Victoria!" her mother yelled.

The auburn kitten stopped dead in her tracks. She slowly turned around and walked to her mother, her head down, ears folded tightly to her skull. Wendy now got her first good look at the small feline. She had the auburn fur of her mother but now that she was close Wendy could see her father's stripes in the auburn. Her headfur was of a strong cinnamon, most likely the reason for her first name.

"Cinnamon," Victoria said in a stern voice.

"Yes, Mama?" the catling answered in a low voice.

"Did you hear your father calling you?"

"Yes, Mama."

"And did you listen?"

"No, Mama."

"And why not?"

"I wanned t' see da place, Mama."

For a few moments Victoria didn't say a word. Then she reached out and placed a paw under Cinnamon's chin. Slowly she tilted her daughter's head up until she looked directly into her eyes. Now Wendy could see that the small cat's eyes were of the same amber as her father's.

"In the future you will listen when your father calls you," the older Maine Coon Cat said.

"Yes, Mama, I will."

"Good," Victoria straightened herself. "You know what to do now."

Slowly the small feline walked over to her father. She took a deep breath and then looked up. "I'm sorry, Papa. I won' do it again."

"It's okay, Cinny," Tygon said and picked his daughter up. The young Maine Coon Cat immediately hugged him tightly and started to purr as she snuggled to him.

"All right," Victoria said with a smile. "Now release your father and wait over there with the nice vixen lady so your father and I can unload the car."

"Otay!" Cinnamon called out as she hopped down from her father's arms and bounced over to Wendy. Directly in front of her she stopped and looked at the vixen with wide eyes.

Wendy knelt down and smiled. "Hello, little one," she said.

"Whoa. You're pretty," Cinnamon said and then turned around and called, "Papa, sie's more pretty 'n Aunt Wanda!"

"You better not let your Aunt Wanda hear that," Tygon replied while lifting a heavy suitcase out of the SUV's trunk.

"Aunt Wanda's a vitsen too," Cinnamon said, turning back to Wendy. "Sie's a model and awful pretty but you're prettier."

"Thanks a lot!" Wendy replied. "Your name is Cinnamon, right?"

The small cat closed her eyes with an expression that showed she was thinking very hard. "My name is Cinn'mon Katarina Victoria Maine-Pant'era von Löwenstein," she eventually said and opened her eyes with a happy smile.

Now it was Wendy's turn to get wide eyes, and an "Umm..." was the only thing she managed to bring out.

"She's not kidding," Victoria said. She had come up to stand beside her daughter. "That's her full name."

"That's a beautiful name," Wendy said, turning back to Cinnamon. "But it's a bit long. Is it okay if I call you Cinny?"

"Otay," the feline said but her attention was already turning to her mother. Cinnamon stretched her arms out to her and Victoria bent down to pick her up. Her daughter wrapped her arms around the larger Maine Coon Cat's neck and buried her face in the long fur on her throat. The small feline's purr was clearly audible to Wendy, who smiled.

"Okay, I'm ready," Tygon said. Wendy turned around and had to suppress a chuckle at the sight. The solid feline was holding a wide hardsider suitcase in each paw and had a huge backpack on his back.

"Then please follow me inside. I'll show you to your room," the vixen said and turned to walk back to the inn. She gave Victoria, who was walking beside her, a wink, and whispered, "You've got him well trained."

"Took me long enough," the feline replied with a sly smile.

"It's beautiful here," Tygon's voice came from behind them, startling Wendy a little. She wouldn't have thought that he'd be able to close up to them so fast with all the stuff he was carrying. The vixen felt the blood shoot into her head as she realized that he might have heard what she had said to Victoria, but if he did, he didn't let it show.

"Thank you," she said, managing a decent smile.

"Is the creek deep enough for swimming?" Tygon asked.

"_Swimming?"_

"Uh-huh."

"Well … I guess so, sure," Wendy replied. "But it's got quite a strong current and even though we seem to be having a touch of Blackberry Summer this weekend, the water is absolutely frigid. Not that it's ever what you'd call warm."

"Perfect!" Tygon exclaimed, his eyes brightening up.

"Oooh! Tan we go swimmin', Papa?" Cinnamon asked with an expression of anticipation.

"Of course, Sweety. Just let us get our stuff to the room and then we'll take a dive."

Again Wendy got wide eyes. She looked at Tygon, then at Cinnamon and then at Victoria. The femme cat shook her head. "Don't ask," she said. "I don't know myself."

"Yeah. I'd not be too surprised at that from otters, or maybe bears, but from _felines_?"

"It's the tiger in them."

"Ah … huh. Okay, if you say so." Wendy opened the large front door for them and led the way up to the Fairy-Tale Suite.

Cinnamon was suitably awed. She tugged on her mother's sleeve and pulled until Victoria bent down to receive the whispered question. The bigger cat's eyes lit, and she chuckled softly as she turned to Wendy. "Cinny wants to know if she has to dress up like a princess to stay here."

"Heh! No, dear, I don't think that's necessary. Unless you feel like it." She got a thoughtful expression on her face, and began tapping the end of her nose with one finger. "Y'know what?"

The question may have been rhetorical, but Victoria said, "What?"

"There are at least two rooms – large rooms, too – on the third floor that are full of old trunks and storage boxes and whatnot. I'd be willing to bet that _something_ fit for a princess could be found up there somewhere."

Cinnamon jumped up and down and clapped her paws. "Ohboyohboyohboyohboyohboy…"

Victoria put both paws on the little girl's shoulders to stop her bouncing. "Later. After we get settled in. And after supper. Got it?"

"Otay, Mama."

##

_** 4:50pm **_

Ellen ticked off the points on her fingers. "Right, the lamb racks are coming along nicely and the pudding is ready to boil. The soup is done, and simmering on a back burner. The salads are in the fridge along with the squash toss, the fish is in the marinade, the lemon-currant sauce is chilling, and you'll take care of the crepes when it's time to serve. And we'll have a fresh garnish of catnip in honor of our feline guests. Did I miss anything?"

"Dessert."

"Done. The standard Friday-night tart assortment. Under glass on the sideboard."

"Good girl." Wendy nodded her approval. She pulled out her watch and nodded again. "I'd better get up front. Mr. Edwards said he'd be here at five."

"Where's he coming from?"

"Boston. Pretty good drive. He was cruising the search engines for a place to stay around your home town, and came across the site. And kudos, once more, to your web designing skills. The graphics grabbed him right off."

As Wendy walked out of the South Hall and into the Folly, she spotted the next arrival turning in and cruised over closer to the window. She leaned against the big array of diamond-shaped panes and watched him come up the drive, a frown growing.

The car had clearly seen better days. It was standing in desperate need of some engine work, as evidenced by the blue-gray cloud that trailed out the back. It resembled nothing so much as a mosquito-fogger. _But_, she thought, as she moved on to the front door, _his credcard checked out and as long as his money's good, I don't really care what kind of ride he has. _

Mr. Edwards pulled up behind the Panthera's big, shiny, new Mercedes SUV, begging a sad comparison. Wendy could see him, from her vantage point on the porch, turn and speak to the two smaller figures in the back seat. One of them shook its head, but the other got out of the driver's side rear door and stood beside the car. Mr. Edwards' own head was wagging slightly as he got out, took the child's paw, and marched toward the house. His long, erect ears, prominent whiskers, and even, brown fur marked him as a hare, but the child was an obvious hybrid. Though she had the older hare's coloring, her ears were smaller and rounded, and her snout quite pronounced. Also, she owned a very long, black tail. Wendy thought she seemed to be around five or six. Both the girl and her father were rail-thin.

Wendy came down the steps to greet them. "Mr. Edwards?" She extended her paw.

He stopped and gave her a penetrating look. "Edwards? No, my name's Capensis. Harry Capensis. Why did you think my name was Edwards?"

Wendy was just as confused. "But that's the name on the reservation. And the credcard."

His face darkened into a scowl. "That sorry sack of …" He caught himself, glanced from Wendy to the child, who regarded the vixen with somber, black eyes. "That would be my father-in-law. Psangkxi Edwards."

"Uh, yes, I think that's right. I wasn't certain how to pronounce that first name, though." _And I'm __still__ not certain, even after hearing it._

"Well, if you can't manage 'Psangkxi' I suppose 'Satan' will do. He should answer to either."

Wendy wasn't _at all_ sure how to respond to that.

He asked, "Do I need to sign in?"

"Oh. Um … no, not since the room charges have already been paid, unless Mr. Edwards himself shows up to contest it."

"Already paid?"

Wendy nodded. "Is he coming?"

"Already paid," he muttered. "Yeah. Tomorrow. But he won't be staying long." The hare seemed to slump a little. "Miss, we've had a hard drive. If you don't mind, and there is nothing else I need to do, I'd like to get into the room and get the kids washed up."

"Of course. Just follow me." She peered over at the dilapidated old sedan. "Is your other child coming as well?"

"Probably. Eventually."

"Ah. I see. Okay." She held out her paw to the door. "Right this way." _This bunch doesn't sound like they'll be too much fun._

##

_** 8:20pm **_

Wendy chuckled. "It just seems to me that Sabrina certainly has a long list of friends."

"Not so much as you'd think," said Tygon. "It's that old 'six degrees of association' thing. She's friends with Zig, and Chris and James keep up with each other, as much as their schedules allow. Zig still owns fifty-one percent of the Studio, even if she doesn't have much to do with it on a daily basis, so she talks with Marvin regularly. Since I still do scripts for the Studio from time to time, Marvin and I have to chat once in a while, because he has final approval on them. And Sabrina was awfully impressed with this place, and told Zig, who told Marvin, who told me. I didn't think too much of it at the time, but I happened to mention it to Tori, and she just grabbed the ball and ran with it." He had his arm over the back of the couch, and stroked his wife's neck as he spoke. "This trip was her idea, and a good idea it was."

Victoria nodded. "And so far it has exceeded my expectations by a grand margin. This place is just lovely!"

"Glad you like it!" said Wendy. "It's sort of grown on me, too."

Ellen had made sure the fire in the library grate was well established by the time the guests were finished with dinner. Mr. Capensis had come down long enough to be introduced around and to make up three trays, which he took back up to their room, explaining that the children were very tired. Cinny had expressed an interest in meeting the other children, since the remaining guests (an older marten couple, who had arrived during the meal and gone straight to bed afterwards) were childless. Victoria had suggested, firmly, that tomorrow would be a better opportunity to do that.

By this time, though, the little catling's nervous energy had worn away, and her delightfully full tummy had pushed her off into a sound sleep. She lay on the sofa, curled between her parents, the firelight playing shadow games with her face as Tygon ran his fingers lightly and slowly through her thick headfur.

The big, striped fur thought this might be an auspicious time to broach the question that had been nagging him for the last couple of hours. "What's the deal with your other guest?"

Ellen and Wendy looked at each other. The vixen asked, "Who? Mr. Capensis?"

Tygon nodded.

"I've not a clue," she responded with a slight shrug. "Why do you ask?"

"Because he's radiating negative energy like a small star."

His wife gave him a look. "Picking up vibes again?"

"Yes," he replied. By way of explanation to Wendy, he said, "I have some slight ability to sense other furs' auras. Nothing spectacular, and nothing I can control, but it was working today and I can tell you that fellow is a powder keg. Something awful has happened to him. Probably recently. I thought you might know."

"Not I. All I know is that he's meeting his in-laws here tomorrow. And he refers to his father-in-law as 'the anti-Christ'."

Victoria's muzzle dropped open. "What?"

"I don't have any idea what's up with that, either. But it was obvious there was no love lost between them."

"Ah. So it's a family dispute. Those can be horrible." He rubbed his daughter's back and sighed, "The kids always lose."

Wendy nearly snorted, "Don't I know it."

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "You've been through that, too?" Her question segued into a yawn.

"Not personally. I've just seen it happen. A lot. Lost a good friend over an argument she had with her sister." She favored them with a wry grin. "Never take sides in a situation like that. No matter who wins, or what the outcome, you'll always be the bad guy to at least one, and probably both, of them."

"Sounds like sage advice."

The conversation slid into a comfortable silence for a while. Wendy got up and stirred the fire, adding a chunk of wood. Ellen said her 'good-nights' and left for her room. Victoria began snoring very softly.

The vixen asked, "So is there anything I can get you before we turn in?"

Tygon shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of. Tori might know."

"You find all the TV stuff okay? The wet bar?"

"Yep."

"You need a listing of local churches and such?"

"Ah … no. We're atheists."

"Oh. Okay." That seemed to perk her up for some reason. "That's cool."

"Oh? Are you atheist? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Ehn." She thought it over for a few seconds. "No. I don't consider myself a non-believer. But if God _is_ still poking around this planet, I'd rather He didn't include me in any of His plans."

"Very well. That's just as serviceable in my book. Means I don't have to worry about whether you're going to smack me in the snout with a copy of Holy Writ. I was pleased to see that you hadn't supplied one of those freebie Bibles with the room. That always strikes me as so condescending."

"Mr. Panthera, I don't like to have someone else force his views on me, and I certainly wouldn't be so hypocritical as to do it myself. You've nothing to worry about on that score."

"I appreciate that. You wouldn't believe some of the $#*& I get at book-signings."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. The weirdos come out of the woodwork. People who will wait in line for an hour or two just so they can shove a little book in your face, or … what's that term? Ah. Just so they can _rebuke_ you in the name of Allah or Samhain or Yahweh or Krishna or whoever. I've been publicly denounced any number of times." A log cracked and fell in the fire, which seemed to derail his train of thought. But a moment later he commented, "I've never really 'gotten used to it' and I doubt I ever will. Sanctimonious bastards."

"Hey, I'm sorry I brought it up. I want your stay here to be relaxing, not something that gives you more reasons to tense up."

"Oh, it's not you. I just got off a book tour last week, and _every single place_ we stopped in east Texas and Louisiana had at least one agitator." He sighed. "You're right, though. I shouldn't dwell on it. If I'm in a funk, Tori picks up on it instantly, and she can't rest until we hash it out. Good for the marriage, but it takes a lot of time."

Victoria stirred and sat up. "What time is it?"

Wendy glanced at the clock on the mantle. "Almost nine."

"Huh. That sounds early, but I'm bushed. What with the drive and lack of sleep and all. And this whole week has been terribly hectic."

"No need to explain to me," Wendy said with a smile. "It's your vacation. You can _hibernate_ if you like."

Tygon picked up his tiny daughter and stood, offering a paw to Victoria. "We'll see you in the morning, then. If we wake up before noon, that is."

##


	11. Chapter 3 Motives Part C

**_Chapter Three – Motives – Part C_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Saturday 15 October 2016 – 10:40am **_

Cinny was back at the creek. Both she and her father had demonstrated an unaccountable immunity to the cold water the day before, but this morning she was only playing at the edge. Neither of her parents worried about her on that score, though. They'd taught her to swim before she could walk.

She'd found plenty of driftwood and deadfalls in the vicinity of the gazebo, enough to construct a crude (and very small) lean-to on the creek bank. The project had occupied her for the past couple of hours, ever since breakfast. She patiently threaded the twigs, vines, and small branches into the hodgepodge of material that made up the roof, and added a pawful of the crisp, colorful leaves whenever she satisfied herself that they'd stay where she put them. Her doll, a small, gray cat, enjoyed indifferent protection from the wan sun in the lee of the shelter.

Her ears swiveled around and picked up footsteps. She peeked over the top edge of the rickety structure, her face breaking into a smile. Two children, both girls, were walking slowly down the path to the creek. Cinny jumped up, dusting off the knees of her pants, and whipped around the lean-to in their direction. When the others caught sight of her, though, they stopped.

She stopped, too, when maybe four meters separated them.

"Hi!" she called. "My name's Cinny. What's yours?"

The others just looked at her for a few seconds, standing there, holding paws. The smaller of the two favored her big sister with a questioning look, but the larger one, a child of perhaps eight or nine, never broke eye contact with Cinny. Finally she said, "I'm Melody. This is Harmony. You mind if we look at the water?"

"Sure! Tum on! It's great! Dere's lotsa rocks to jump on, an' li'l pools an' stuff, an' some li'l crunchy things under the rocks, an' you c'n find some neat sticks an' stuff, an' build stuff." And, suiting actions to words, she hopped out onto one of the near rocks. "Dey're kinda slippy, but I don't fall off much. Tum on!" She leapt to another, higher rock and sat on its rim, dangling her toes in the gelid stream.

The other girls walked, somewhat hesitantly, down to the creek's edge, but no closer than a meter or so.

The little feline called, "Whatsamatta? You don' like water?"

Melody shook her head, but didn't say anything. Harmony released her paw and sank down onto the withered grass, closing her eyes. Melody moved a short way down the bank. Cinny just watched them for a bit. She thought they acted sort of strange.

Harmony spoke up. "I wike da water. Ee soun' nice."

"You're right," replied her sister. "Sounds like singin'."

Harmony's voice was small and tight as she said, "I miss singin'."

"Yeah. Me too." Neither girl had yet to offer even the ghost of a smile.

Cinny piped up, "I c'n sing! Wanna hear?" She hopped the rocks back over to the bank. "I know some songs my Mama taught me. I know 'Row, row, row your boat' an' 'O Tannenbaum' an' 'Winkin, Bwinkin, & Nod'. Wanna hear?"

Melody stood as if frozen. Harmony gave Cinny a stricken look and curled up into a tiny ball, whimpering.

Cinny knelt beside her and patted her on the arm. "I'm sorry! You wanna sing first? You c'n go first. You c'n sing, 'Winkin, Bwinkin & Nod, an' I'll sing somefin else."

Melody walked the couple of meters to Harmony's side and helped her to stand. "We gotta get back to our room." And she took her younger sister's paw firmly in hers and led the way back up the path.

Cinny followed them a few steps. "What's wrong? You got a boo-boo? My Mama c'n put a ban-aid an' boo-boo cream on it. Sie gave me a ban-aid yesserdy."

At that, Harmony broke into real sobbing and clung to her sister. Melody said, "We gotta go." And she hurried them along. Cinny watched until they turned a corner in the trail and walked out of sight.

The little catling was at a loss. A basically helpful and friendly child, she hated to see anyone crying, and was always intensely curious to know the 'what' and 'why' behind the tears. Part of it was simply her feline nature, but part of her wanted to do something constructive for the grieving one. So she didn't waste much time in thought, but took off after the girls. She caught up to them as the forest thinned near the Inn's rear yard. Harmony was yet weeping, not the racking sobs she'd had, but still steady, and Melody was still marching them along smartly.

"Wait!"

They didn't wait. They didn't even slow down. Cinny ran up to them, looking down at Harmony. She had to jog-walk to keep up. She asked Melody, "Sie otay?"

The taller girl shook her head. Cinny could see that her eyes glistened with the effort of fighting back her own tears. She said, "I c'n help! C'n I help? You wan' me to go get somebody? You wan' your Mama?"

Melody lost it. She stopped and turned on the little feline. "Will you just stop it? Just go away! Get lost!" She'd ceased all pretense of not crying, and her jaw trembled with pent-up emotion.

"But … but I wanna help. I'll go get … "

"_Shut up!_ Our Mommy's _dead!_ Just _shut up!_" And she turned and practically dragged her sister up to the Inn.

Cinny couldn't move. Her thoughts a blighted, tangled wilderness, she stood and watched dumbly as they entered the huge house, and the door was slammed shut behind them.

##

_** 1:55pm **_

Mr. Psangkxi Edwards had arrived precisely at noon, one armored car preceding him while another followed the black stretch limousine in which he rode. The limo driver stayed in his seat with the engine idling while two liveried footfurs opened Mr. Edwards' door and flanked him as he exited the vehicle. His motorized wheelchair rolled out onto the custom lift and was gently deposited on the ground.

From a window in the second floor, Wendy had eyed this gravely subdued procession with a sense of foreboding. She'd known Mr. Capensis was waiting for him in the library. The tall hare had been all but unapproachable as the time for the meeting drew near.

And now, nearly two hours later, as the three vehicles negotiated the drive-around and headed back for the road, she sat in her office, trying not to cry. Unable to curb her curiosity, she had donned an old coverall and squirmed through the secret passage that led from the freezer room to the rear panel of one of the bookshelves. It was sufficiently thin so that she could hear the conversation. It had gotten ugly quickly.

Mr. Edwards appeared to be some type of shrew, but a wizened, shrunken shell of one. Both his paws were wrenched into unnatural shapes, perhaps by arthritis, and his left arm stuck out at an odd angle. Wendy had gleaned from her brief talks with Mr. Capensis that the old fur had been born in South Africa, to a family whose fortune had been made on the backs of native diamond-miners. His attendants followed him into the library and stood on either side of the door. She had no clear idea of how old he was, but he looked ancient, although his voice was strong enough.

"Well, Harry. You're looking peevish as ever."

Mr. Capensis' voice was low and dull. "Go to hell."

"In time, my boy, in time. I'm not finished here yet."

"More's the pity."

"Now, you mustn't take that attitude. What would dear Monica have said about that?"

At the mention of his departed wife's name, the hare launched into a tirade of cursing that lasted most of a minute. He ended with, "Just _try_ to take them away! You just _try_, you old fucker! I'll see you hanged first!"

"Gently, my boy, my dear, _dear_ son-in-law. Recorded confessions are amazingly effective in court. And then where would your sweet little girls be?"

"Fuck you, you bastard! You don't give a **damn** about them! Why can't you just leave us alone?"

The old fur's voice dropped a bit and took on a silky tone. "Because, my _son_, you chose to take her away from me, even after my more than generous offer. You corrupted her, turned her head, filled her with silly ideas about equality and ethics, fair play and friendship. You stole my heir. _Stole_ her! And you will pay for that for the rest of your useless life."

"Stole! Hah! That's rich. She would have wasted away to a shadow if she'd stayed with you! She _never_ knew love in your house! I didn't steal her, I rescued her!"

"There are generally two sides to every story. I'm content with mine. And I will be content with nothing less than your total destruction." He gave a wheezy, barking chuckle. "It shouldn't take me more than a few months to repair the damage you've done to the girls. I'll have my property back, and operating correctly, before next year is out."

"You sack of …" Mr. Capensis drew several ragged breaths, and got himself under control. He'd heard this line of drivel before from the old shrew. "You … are dying. Your mind may be as sharp and twisted and calculating as ever, but your body is nearly gone. You don't have too much longer. And I promise you this one thing: you _will not live_ to see me separated from my daughters. I promise."

"Empty words, my lad. You have no money. You have no job, nor any credibility in your field. You don't even have any more friends, not since I engineered that little 'incident' in the park."

"_You?_ You son of a bitch! _I'll kill you!_"

Wendy heard scuffling sounds, and a solid _thud_, then a rustling plop, as of something heavy landing on something soft.

Mr. Edwards giggled, a high, nasal sound. "Leave him there, Sadler. He can nurse his own head. And leave the papers there on that table. Let him know that he has one week. One week of knowing that he's lost. Seven days to mull over the fact that I've _won_, and that he can do absolutely _nothing_ about it, and that he will _never recover_."

Biting her lip hard, and clenching both fists, Wendy struggled to remain quiet as she heard Mr. Capensis moan, and the wheelchair's motor grind briefly.

"You moron. You think you have the side of right? Of honesty? Of so-called goodness? You're pathetic. It is as I told you. There is no right, no wrong. There is power, and there is weakness, and there are consequences. And you are weak. Weak, and soft, and insipid. Love! Don't make me laugh." And he spat on the hare. "Let's go."

Wendy had fled to her office at that point, physically sick from the evil she had witnessed.

Ellen had overheard none of what went on in the library, and so was very pleasant and cordial to the elderly shrew and his entourage, setting them up with a generous snack in the smaller dining room. She hadn't noticed when Mr. Capensis slunk out and trudged slowly up to his room.

And now the cavalcade was leaving, and Wendy's mind was madly whirling.  
_What can I do?  
What should I do?  
How can I help?  
Is there anything __anyfur__ can do?  
What's in those papers?  
Can he get out of the country, or would that do any good?  
Can they go into hiding?_  
She'd met Melody and Harmony only briefly, and her heart had gone out to the thin little waifs, but apart from pity she'd had no other feelings for them. Now, though, she was trying desperately to think of a way to keep them out of their grandfather's claws.

She decided after a bit that talking with the hare would be a good first step. _The least I can do is let them stay on here for a while. That old fart said they had a week. Surely we can come up with __something__ in that much time!_

##

_** 6:00pm **_

The Panthera family had enjoyed a relaxing day of doing as little as they could get by with. Cinnamon had been very quiet most of the day, at least during those times when she'd been with her parents, but it was a quiet, restful sort of day in the first place, and neither Tygon nor Victoria remarked on her silence. The breeze was soft, but bracingly cool, and the deep blue of the sky was checkered with a high cirrocumulus web, glinting golden and magenta in the glancing sunlight. The three of them sat in the wide wicker chairs on the front porch, watching as the sun set. Cinny was a puddle of striped fur on her father's lap.

Ellen stepped out onto the broad planks and took in the tableau, smiling to herself. _They look so cute!_ She cleared her throat and said, "Dinner will be served in twenty minutes. If you'd like to wash up or change, now is the time. We have prepared a mushroom-and-minced-mackerel soufflé to compliment the sage-and-roast-garlic-stuffed partridges, and it really should be savored while very fresh.

Tygon's mouth immediately watered at the brief descriptions.

Victoria got up and offered a paw to her daughter. "Come on, Cinny, let's go inside."

The child got down off Tygon's lap and followed her mother obediently into the house. The big feline stretched and yawned, then asked, "So tell me, what are the winters really like around here? I've heard it gets awfully cold."

"Believe it! I was born just a few klicks from here. We _do_ have some winters. And some of the old-timers are saying it's gonna be a cold one."

He sighed. "I wish we could stick around. I love cold weather. And Cinny thinks snow is the greatest thing in life."

"What about your wife? How does she feel about cold?"

"Well … she puts up with it, mostly. The colder it gets, the less inclined she is to leave the house."

"Heh. Typical."

"You like the cold?"

"Not especially. But the country's pretty, and I'm doing what I like here, what I'm good at."

"That's a plus." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

"Why, thank you! So nice to play host to a gentlefur."

##

Cinny stood very still, not fidgeting at all, while her mother washed her face. Victoria noted this uncharacteristic compliance, and asked, "Are you all tuckered out, sweetie?"

"No, Mama."

"Hmm." Victoria wrung out the washcloth into the basin and hung it on the heavy brass rack. "You've been awfully quiet today. And you usually put up a fuss over getting cleaned up. Are you sure you aren't tired?"

"No, Mama."

"Well, then, let's pick out a dress for you to wear to dinner." And she flipped through the small selection they'd brought along while Cinny got out of her play clothes.

Victoria had pulled the dress down over her daughter's head and was smoothing out the ruffles when the girl asked, "Are you gonna die, Mama?"

Shocked, the cat rocked back on her heels. "What did you say?"

Cinny looked at the floor. "Nuffin." She squeezed her eyes shut, and a single tear rolled off the tip of her nose.

"Honey?" Victoria gently raised her daughter's face. "What gave you the idea that I might die?"

The child gave a small shrug. Victoria guided her to the bed and drew her up onto her lap. She gave her a big hug and said, "I'm not planning to die any time soon, if that's what you mean. Oh, sure, I'll die someday. Everyone does. Being alive _means_ that you'll get old and die someday. It's just part of being. It's the way nature works." She gave the child another hug, and felt it returned this time, with interest. "Sweetie, I love you very much, and I will do everything in my power to keep us together. You know your father and I both love you more than we know how to say."

"But … but Harremee's mama's dead."

"Who?"

"Harramee an' Mewody. Dey said it dis mornin'."

The child's plaintive tone and the injured look in her eyes tore at Victoria's heart. Her voice thick, she asked, "Who are they?" Then the light came on. "Are they Mr. Capensis's children?"

Cinny nodded.

Victoria's vision was getting a bit 'starry', and she blinked a few times. "Oh, honey!" she said as she held her daughter close. "My sweet girl!" Now some of the missing pieces concerning their reclusive fellow guest were falling into place. Obviously his wife – their mother – must have died very recently. No wonder he radiated such pain! "Cinny, I feel very sorry for them, too! They must miss their mother terribly!"

She nodded again. "I fought Harramee had a boo-boo. Dey ran off w'en I tried to sing wiff 'em." She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve and sniffed.

"Sweetheart?" Victoria leaned back and got Cinny's full attention. "Sometimes bad things happen. Furs get sick, or hurt, or may even die. It's part of living in this world. But we are very careful, we take good care of ourselves, and there is no reason to think either of us may die for many, many years. No reason at all! I don't think you need to worry about it. And you know what your Dad says."

The amber eyes studied her mother's face intently, but she shook her head. "No, Mama."

"It's not the years of your life, but the life in your years that counts. We need to just love each other and take care of each other, and enjoy being with each other, and not worry about what might happen. We'll have good times, and fun, and we'll learn things, and we'll grow, and we'll be happy." And she pulled her daughter close and rocked her gently back and forth.

"Pwomise?"

"Yes, honey, I promise. I promise I'll _always_ love you, no matter what."

"I wuv you, too, Mama." She hopped down and looked at her mother expectantly. "I'm hungwy. Is suppa weady?"

Victoria wiped at her eyes with the back of one finger. "I'm sure it's almost time. Let's go!"

##


	12. Chapter 4 The Setup Part A

**_Chapter Four – The Setup – Part A_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**There is no fire like passion,  
****there is no shark like hatred,  
****there is no snare like folly,  
****there is no torrent like greed.**

_**-Buddha**_

##

_** Sunday 16 October 2016 – 2:10pm **_

Michael Truefoot stared across the conference table in disbelief.

"I hope you're joking."

"Not at all."

"But we have no choice! It's all part of the Third Freedom of Information Act! We _have_ to have film capability!"

"Mr. Truefoot, if that's the way you intend to play it, then I must respectfully decline to testify."

"Don't do this to me, Karl!"

"You don't really need my testimony anyway. I wasn't the one who was attacked, technically."

"That's not the point! Your version of what happened around Camel's Hump ties up several loose ends of the other witnesses' stories! It's not _dead_ critical to the case, but it sure will help scotch any maneuvering the defense might try!"

"Then you must see to it that there are no cameras in the courtroom. That is my only condition."

"Karl, come on! You don't have a record, no warrants, no subpoenas, not even a parking ticket! What are you so afraid of?"

"Being recognized by old enemies. I will be happy to testify if you ban cameras, but not otherwise."

"Old enemies?"

"Yes."

"Ah-huh. That 'former line of work' thing again?"

"Exactly."

"Well." He paused a few seconds. "What about the court artists? Wouldn't that be just as much a danger?"

"No. I will be in disguise. Nothing elaborate, but enough so that a drawing of me in that state shouldn't flick any switches in old memories."

"Hmm." Michael sighed in frustration. "I'll see what I can do. But you'll be testifying one way or another."

"As you say. But there will be no cameras."

##

_** Monday 17 October 2016 – 1:30pm **_

Harry Capensis had carefully read through all of the papers his aged nemesis left for him, and had been reduced to a drained and defeated fur practically overnight. He followed Wendy listlessly down to the gazebo beside Ash Creek, staring at nothing, seeing nothing, lost in his misery. She brushed the dead leaves off the wrought iron bench and invited him to sit, which he did without comment.

He pulled his worn corduroy coat more tightly around him and slumped against the back of the bench, shivering a little. " 's cold today. Why'd we have to come out here?"

"So that no one else can hear what we talk about."

He gave her a look that might almost have been called curious, hollow eyes notwithstanding. "Why?"

"Because what I'm about to share with you is, I'm sure, illegal, and I don't want anyone to either try to interfere or try to help."

That did pique his interest. "Illegal? What are you saying?"

"Mr. Capensis … would you mind if I called you Harry? It's a lot shorter."

He shrugged.

"Okay. Harry, I was hiding in the library Saturday when you spoke with your father-in-law."

All the air went out of him. He listed sharply to starboard, and Wendy had to shoot out a paw to keep him upright on the bench. He gasped a couple of times, then asked, "Where?"

"Behind the bookcase."

"How?"

"Secret passage."

"But … but … why?"

"Mainly curiosity. But what I heard that old … that _thing_ say … well … put it this way: I'm on your team now."

"I … I don't understand. What team? What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to help you."

"Help me _what?_"

"Help you keep your daughters away from that demon in fur."

He stared at her for a good thirty seconds, saying nothing.

She offered, "If you really don't want my help, I'll try to butt out. But I just think it would be a shame …"

"No."

"… No?"

"I … I mean yes. We need help from somewhere. And I would give my _life_ to protect them from that monster!" Doubt and hope fought each other in his eyes. "But … the papers … the court order …"

"I said it was illegal." She shrugged, then leaned toward him and took his paw. "I mean to hide you. To keep you away from him. I think we can do it."

A glimmer of hope began to rise behind that weary, defeated gaze. "Do you really think so?"

She nodded. "We'll need to fix up one of the storerooms on the third floor, and I'll need to get all of you acquainted with the network of secret passages, and we'll have to do something about your scent. But I think it can be done."

"Wait! He's going to be watching this place. He'll know we haven't left."

"Oh, but you _will_ leave. I'll give you a very public send-off."

"… And then?"

"And then we sneak you back in. We'll come in through the woods. I'll need a few days to arrange some favors, but we've got until Saturday. I think we can do it."

He straightened his back, his vision clearer. "I'm your fur. If we can pull this off it will mean the difference between life and death for Melody and Harmony." He thought of something else then. "Do you think he has the house bugged?"

"He very well may have. They were here long enough, and pretty much unsupervised."

"That's why we're out here, isn't it?"

"Yup."

"So … hang on! Are we going to have to do all our planning outside? And how are we going to keep our presence in the house a secret if it's bugged?" A slight tinge of panic had crept back into his voice.

"Don't worry about that just yet. I've got … well, sort of an ace-in-the-hole when it comes to electronics." Her voice dropped a bit as she said, mostly to herself, "I've just got to get in touch with him, and convince him to come out and do a sweep without letting the truth out." That was the part of her plans she hadn't really fleshed out. _And I sure as __hell__ don't want him to know any of the particulars. It'd be just like him to try to talk me out of it._

"And how are we going to get back here from wherever we drive? And how …"

"Whoa!" She held up a paw. "One question at a time. I've thought through a lot of this, but I do need your help on a thing or two. Now … how well do you know the area around Ticonderoga?"

##

_** Tuesday 18 October 2016 – 11:05am **_

The gavel rapped the striking block sharply. "Court will take a short recess to consider the request by the counsel for the defense." Judge Corpin rose slowly and moved back through the door behind his chair. The lead defense lawyer and District Attorney Adam Redd followed through the lower door.

Chris leaned forward and nudged the assistant DA. "Plea-bargain time?"

"You better believe it!" crowed Mr. Pauley, a middle-aged raccoon. "Their case is sunk and they know it. Really, I think all they're doing now is covering the bases so that no one can say they didn't do everything they could in their clients' defense." He gazed over at the section of the courtroom that had been allotted to the purists. "Just look at 'em. You see any hope in that sad-sack corral?"

Chris had to agree. They were a most dejected-looking lot. Very different from the cocky furs at the start of the inquest weeks before. "I see what you mean."

Daren peered around his mother and asked Chris, "How long is this 'short recess' gonna be? I'm starvin'!"

"Got a good point there, kiddo." He swiveled back to the raccoon and asked, "Any chance of getting on to lunch? I know they've been setting up in one of those rooms over there. I can smell it."

"We can all smell it. And I don't have any idea. It depends on how persistent the defense wants to be. They could tie the judge up in legal loops for hours, wear him down until he gives in out of sheer desperation. Or he could cut through that crap and make it short and sweet. Sweet for us, that is. With Judge Corpin, my money's on the 'short' version."

Chris asked Sabrina, "You hungry, dear?"

"Getting that way. I wouldn't turn down a sandwich."

He looked back at Daren. "How about Samantha? She hungry, too?"

The gray skunk snorted. "You're jokin', right? Just look at those two. The roof could collapse and they wouldn't notice."

"Hmm." Chris _had_ observed how … um … _friendly_ Sam and Martin had been. They'd sat, holding paws, heads close, except for when Martin had to testify. They seemed lost in a deep conversation even now.

_I'm just glad she's interested in a good guy. Martin really is a nice kid, thank the Lord._

Sabrina offered, "You could ask her, but I doubt she'd care one way or the other."

"Okay, then, see if you …"

"All rise!"

Everyfur got to his or her feet as Judge Corpin came back to the bench and sat. Mr. Pauley was all grins as he whispered over his shoulder, "Toldja."

Once everyone was settled, the judge said, "This court will now adjourn for lunch. We will reconvene at one o'clock." And he banged the gavel down.

Daren sprang to his feet. "Cool!"

"Sit!"

"But, Dad …"

"Sit. Wait."

"But I'm starvin'!"

"You don't have any idea what starvation really feels like. They'll come get us when the food is ready. It's still really over half an hour until lunch is usually served. You should have brought a candy bar or something."

"Oh! Hey! That's right." He rummaged around briefly in his backpack and came up with a plastic zip-bag of trail mix. "I did think ahead. Just, um, forgot about it. Heh." He opened the bag and started munching.

Sabrina looked at her husband with a smile. "He's a teenage boy, Honey. You spend your days at work, and don't see how much he eats. It's a constant, all-day thing."

"Hmph. I see the grocery bills. Good thing I got a promotion."

"More than you know, dear."

They were shortly spared having to listen to any more of Daren's carping, as lunch was presented some fifteen minutes early. The young skunk ate until the attendants came to take away the remains.

##

_** 8:30pm **_

Wendy was more than a little torqued off at Mr. Karl Luscus. She had anticipated seeing him this evening, but instead of the fur in the flesh, she received an e-mail with his regrets that he could not attend, explaining that circumstances beyond his control prevented his visit.

_Dammit.  
I was going to ask him about de-bugging the house.  
Dammit.  
Now I'll have to get him out here some other way.  
Dammit. … …_

He had, at least, done a transfer to her account to cover the expense of preparing his meal, which no one else would be remotely interested in eating. She had trouble even sitting at the same table with that array of ultra-hot curries.

_Tomorrow, then. Have to call him and come up with some legitimate excuse without letting ol' Satan in on my plans. Think, girl, think!_

##

There had been many times after his Augmentation that Karl had regretted his super-charged system's facility with negating the effects of alcohol. Getting rip-roaring drunk in some seedy bar, and then starting a good, old-fashioned donnybrook, had been one of his preferred methods of unwinding at the end of a stressful week, back when he ran the R&D division for Westmon-Hightower. But after he joined the ISB, after he qualified for a spot on Omicron's short list, after he came out of that eldritch soup, he discovered that he could no longer get a buzz, no matter how fast he poured down the high-test booze. His liver would process it within seconds, and then regenerate the damage. And even though it let him win any number of bar bets, the fact that he could never again get drunk had disgusted him. Later, when he dedicated his life to Christ, he'd come to look on it as a blessing of sorts. But tonight … tonight he would have paid a very great deal for the privilege of getting totally plastered.

_Gutless. That's what you are. Just plain gutless._

_That has nothing to do with it._

_Oh, sure. I believe that._

_Give me a break. What was I supposed to do?_

_You were supposed to suck it up and go to dinner and be a __**friend**__ to Wendy. That's what that running-reservation thing was all about, remember? Facing your fears? Putting the past in the past?_

_Shut up._

_I can't shut up, doofus. I'm you._

_Oh. Right._

One thing worse than arguing with yourself is losing those arguments. He found suddenly that he wanted to get in his truck and just drive somewhere. Basin Harbor had any number of secluded spots along the river where a fur could take a leisurely swim. Objective acquired, he bounded out the door as if demons were on his tail.

Which, in one sense, they were.

##


	13. Chapter 4 The Setup Part B

**_Chapter Four – The Setup – Part B_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Wednesday 19 October 2016 – 4:00pm **_

There was very little in the way of grass-cutting to be done this late in the season, but the fallen leaves and dead branches from the property filled two of Emerald Lawn Care's big trucks. Wendy stood in the foyer and watched them work, but most of her attention was on the van parked out at the road.

It was black, a full-size conversion van with darkly tinted windows, and the driver had managed to wrestle it across the ditch and onto the grass on the opposite side of the road. Wendy wasn't sure when it had shown up, but it hadn't been there at eleven when she called Harry and the girls down for lunch. The lawn crew had arrived just before two, and Wendy had gone out to offer them some hot cocoa and tea biscuits around an hour later. The van was there then. The furs on the crew had denied any knowledge of it.

She thought it very odd. This road was local-use only. It branched off of North Street not too far from New Haven, meandering around for a while before joining back up with the main road where the north-bound traveler had to decide whether he wanted to go to East Monkton or Barnumtown. So, if they were lost, why hadn't they come up to the Inn for directions? If they were having engine trouble, why was no one tinkering under the hood?

But neither had happened. For the last hour, as she checked it periodically, the van had sat there, idling.

She sensed another's presence and glanced over her shoulder. Harry Capensis walked up and joined her in front of the window, staring at the van.

"That's him."

"Him?" She cocked an eye at him. "Him who? Edwards?"

"Yes. Oh, I doubt he's out there himself, but those are his furs, I'm certain of it." He looked around nervously and leaned close to whisper, "When is your electronics guy going to be here?"

"I don't know," she answered, _sotto voce_. "He was supposed to come by last night, but he finked out for some reason. Today he's testifying at a trial in Montpelier. Same one where Conner is. It's bound to be winding down, though. I'll give him a try at his shop." She left for her office, but Harry stayed where he was, staring silently at the van, never moving, his breathing shallow.

##

Karl was washing the stripes out of his facial fur when the phone rang. He let the system pick it up and listened.

"Hello? Karl? Anyfurry home? Earth to Captain Luscus." He heard her sigh, then say, "Still not there, huh? Stupid legal mumbo-jumbo. Okay, when you get back, _if_ you ever get back, give me a call. I've got a … well, a situa – that is, a problem out here, and I need some … um, technical advice. Too many details to leave on a voicemail. Talk at ya later." And she broke the connection.

Karl completed his ablutions, returning his appearance to his normal near-black. Michael had been unable to do anything about the cameras in the courtroom. But Karl got by. Shortly before it came time for his testimony, they simply stopped working. So did the microphone, the court's autorecorder, and several other pieces of more-or-less advanced electronics. So the court stenographer had to take notes by paw, grumbling the whole time, while the building's maintenance team tried to figure out where the problem lay. Unfortunately, their own equipment seemed to be malfunctioning, and by the time one of them had returned with replacement power packs, Karl was finished and Sergeant Paul Fellis had taken the stand. Judge Corpin had been conducting legal proceedings for a very long time, and he wasn't about to hold up the works just because these new-fangled gadgets decided to get temperamental.

Karl put away the cleaning supplies and walked over to sit next to the phone, staring at it while drumming his fingers repeatedly on the desk. Though he could, at will, remember every nuance of vibration and timbre in her lilting tones, hearing the real thing, live, had a most unsettling effect on his thoughts. It exerted a control, almost a geas over his emotions.

_What am I supposed to do? How do I manage this?_

For the three days he'd trained with Richard Grau, he'd focused every erg of mental and physical energy into the forms. Richard, an earlier-generation Augment himself, had no real trouble keeping up the hellish pace, and he threw himself into the task. They rose early and worked late, ate hugely, and slept the sleep of the dead. Karl studied and practiced the combat routines, the defensive postures, the specific uses of each centimeter of the blades, singly and in combination. And to Richard's dumbfounded amazement he had mastered them in the allotted time.

While thus occupied, Karl had been able to 'forget' Wendy. His mind was disciplined enough to stick exclusively to the task at paw, and ignore any extracurricular distractions. His heart, though, was having a lot of trouble separating noise from signal. He'd chickened out on dinner the evening before, and today, as soon as he heard her message, it all came flooding back in.

One nagging problem he had with this setup was that he _liked_ Conner. If her choice of paramour had been a louse, Karl would have had ample excuse to do something about him, but it hadn't worked out that way. They had a lot in common, and Karl had decided that the big wolf was a fur of honor and integrity. Karl had excused himself from Wendy's love life, and Conner had happened along to conveniently fill the spot.

_Not that we had a love life. More like a potential love life._

_Easily could have been more than just potential. Very easily._

_No, it couldn't. Not while we're at opposite poles, philosophically. It wouldn't be fair._

_And this is fair?_

… _This is right._

_That remains to be seen._

_Shut up._

_You just don't get it, do you?_

He shook himself out of the reverie, switched the unit to conference mode, and hit the CALLBACK button. He told himself again that his feelings didn't matter; that whatever lingering emotional baggage he carried could be handled adequately until such time as he could unload it somewhere; that he owed it to her, as a friend, to handle their interactions with professionalism and cordiality; that he would not allow his attraction to her to interfere with …

"Hello?"

"Um…"_ The music! The majesty!_ "Hello, Wendy. I'm returning your call."

"Oh, Karl! Hey! I got your e-mail! It's a shame you never showed! The curry was really hot!" Her voice sounded a little odd. Perhaps a bit … forced, or something. Almost as if she were speaking for someone else's benefit. His hackles rising, he switched into 'protector' mode. If something or someone were menacing Wendy …

" … … Yes," he replied. "Thank you for being so understanding. I'm very sorry."

"That's okay."

The seconds stretched out. Karl asked, "Is there something else? Your message …"

"Right! Didn't mean to leave you hanging. Too much woolgathering." She paused, and then her tone dropped significantly. "And I'm, uh, trying to, um, to be clear about … that is, see, I've got this, um, well, these problems. And I was hoping you could help."

"Not something you can talk about over the phone?"

Her relief at his accurate response was palpable. "Bingo!"

"Are you alone?"

"Uh … Ellen's here."

"I'll be there in eighteen minutes."

"Good! Can you come around to the kitchen?"

_The kitchen? _"Yyyyyes." He thought it advisable to get some specifics. "What tools should I bring?"

"Well, um …" She seemed to be searching for words. "I, uh, need you to, um … take a look at the televisions."

" … The televisions?"

"Yes! The televisions! And my mobile phone. I think the satellite connection is screwy."

"I see. Electronics problems, um, _bugging_ you?"

She blew a relieved sigh. "Yes!"

"Okay. I think I may have just the solution."

"Oh, good! I was hoping you would. The reception is terrible."

"I can imagine. I'll see you very soon."

"Bye."

And as he began to collect certain pieces of esoteric hardware, he mulled over the list of who might have a compelling reason to throw a surveillance web on Ash Creek Inn. The possible answers didn't leave him with warm, fuzzy feelings.

##

_** 4:27pm **_

Well before he got to the edge of the clearing, Karl's instruments picked up the electromagnetic storm coming from a source near the Inn. He pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and ran a diagnostic on the types and magnitudes of the frequencies used, frowning with concentration as he carefully kept his sensory output below the level they would pick up. Next, he redirected his scan to the Inn itself, locating no fewer than six previously unknown sources. Satisfied that Wendy was not under direct attack, and that he could proceed without alerting the observers to his capabilities, he got back on the road and drove up to the huge, old house.

He noted the license number of the black van, and that it was a Boston registry, but it did not match any of the plates on record for Massachusetts as of about five months previous. He would check on that later. He drove his truck around to the kitchen entrance, and Wendy hopped out to meet him.

Wordlessly, she indicated the path into the wood, and he followed her a short distance from the house. She began without preamble. "I had some really creepy furs here over the weekend, and I think they might have bugged my house."

"I can tell you without hesitation that _someone_ did."

"Eep! Damn! That son of a …" She cocked an eyebrow at him and settled down. "Okay. How'd you know?"

"I stopped out on the road and scanned the Inn. You have six radio sources broadcasting a weak signal on a non-authorized band."

"Damn, you're good!"

"Don't praise me _too_ quickly. That only defines the current problem. Who were the furs who stayed here, and why do you think they bugged your house?"

"The 'who' is easy. One Psangkxi Edwards."

" … Say that first name again?"

"It's P-S-A-N-G-K-X-I. I'm not too sure of the actual pronunciation."

He ran through all the names on the terrorist roles that he knew about, and drew a blank. "Fair enough. That name is not familiar to me."

"Nor was it to me."

"Who is he?"

"Some rich industrialist from a South African diamond-mining family."

"And you never met him before?"

"No. Thank G … thank goodness."

"Did he seem unusually inquisitive?"

"No. I don't think he had any direct interest in me at all."

"Really." _Very strange._ "So, why did he do it?"

"He probably thinks his son-in-law will come back here. At least, that's all I can come up with."

"Whoa, whoa. Son-in-law?"

"Yeah. Fellow by the name of Capensis. Harry Capensis. He was here, too."

"Uh-_huh_. I will need some more background."

So Wendy spent the next few minutes explaining what went on over the weekend (in roundabout and, shall we say, not _totally_ accurate terms) and getting Karl up to speed on the relationship in question. "I let Mr. Capensis stay over a few days while he makes some phone calls to try to line up some place for his daughters to stay, but he's leaving tomorrow."

"I see." He considered this state of affairs for a bit. "Very well. For the moment let's ignore the fact that placing listening devices without the knowledge or consent of the homeowner is extremely illegal. Under the circumstances I think it would be in your best interests at this time to leave them where they are."

"_**What?"**_

"Hear me out. First, can you prove that this Edwards fur put the bugs there?"

"… Well … um …" She thought hard, but finally huffed in exasperation. "No. But see, he's the one that had the time and the motive and …"

Karl held up his paw. "Wait. Are you sure the bugs were not there before last weekend?"

That one gave her a lot to chew on. "Honestly, no. I never thought about it before."

"So, if we do call in the law, they won't have much to go on, will they?"

"Well, shit. No, dammit. And I see where you're going with this."

"Good. So what we need to do is leave the devices in place, and let them keep monitoring."

Her muzzle twisted in frustration. "Can't I at least run that van off?"

"Sure you could. But I don't think it will matter one way or another. If you go down there and ask them why they're parked on your land, I'm quite sure they will have a plausible excuse. They may even cheerfully move on if you ask them to. But that just means they'll send someone else to camp out on that little mountain across the way and use more sensitive equipment. If we deactivate the bugs, they will probably go with a remote-sensing system. Face it, Wendy, if someone wants to eavesdrop on you these days, he can do it. And there isn't too much most furs can do to stop it."

"Well, crap. That sucks."

He held up a finger. "I _didn't_ say there was no way _we_ could stop it, though. You just have to be able to get around the system."

"Oh?"

"Yep. Actually, with the setup you've got here, it will work to our _advantage_ to leave the bugs. We'll just let them relay a false signal."

A grin spread slowly over her muzzle. "Like an electronic double agent. I love it!"

"Oh, yeah. This should be fun. Shall we?" And he let her go before him back to the house.

##

_** Thursday 20 October 2016 – 1:00pm **_

The weight, substance, and exhaustive detail of the prosecution's closing arguments left no doubt in anyone's mind as to the final outcome of the trial. There was no cogent answer the defense could make to the charges, no clever twists of logic that could redeem any of their clients' actions, and they knew it. The lead counsel took less than twenty minutes to sum up their side of the case, and basically threw the Purebreds onto the mercy of the jury. They really had no better tactic to try.

Judge Corpin gave the jury its charge, reminding them to pay careful attention to reasonable doubt, and reinforcing the fact that their decisions would affect the lives of many more furs than were represented in the courtroom. They were cloistered shortly before noon, to decide their verdicts.

As many of the principle players in these dramas were on paw as could make it. The State Troopers were on duty again, and so could not be there, and Karl was conspicuous by his absence. But the Evanses, Cinnamon and Emily, Conner, Martin, and the whole Foxx tribe were not about to miss the climax of the events of the last couple of months.

However, when the jury forefur sent word to Judge Corpin late that afternoon that they would not be finished with their deliberations until the next day, he declared court to be in recess and sent everyone home.

##

_** 7:00pm **_

It was just a skylight in one of the older sections of the armory, and none too clean at that. But as far as Martin was concerned, it could have been Kublai Khan's storied pleasure dome. It wasn't the location that mattered. It was the company.

He and Samantha had found this private place the day before. It was not far at all from the rooms they'd been assigned, in what appeared to be an unused exhibition hall. At some time in the fairly recent past, renovation crews had come in, laid down drop cloths, set up scaffolding, readied the painting equipment, … and left. Maybe they'd be back after this crisis was over, but right now it was deserted, which suited the pair just fine.

They lay, side by side, on one of the cloths, folded on the thick boards at the top of the scaffold, some five or six meters off the floor. The skylight was maybe another meter and a half above them, and gave a marvelous view of the stars this clear evening. But the stars they were _really_ interested in could only be found in each other's eyes.

The vixen wore the same subtle, compelling perfume she'd had on when Martin had come out to the Inn with Karl to fix the pump. And although Martin was not nearly as tongue-tied as he had been then, it still helped to grab and hold his full, rapt attention. They chatted at length, about anything and nothing, about their lives, their families, their dreams, the Purebreds, the way they'd met, Martin's abduction and near-miraculous recovery. Samantha, a budding artist, had presented Martin with a self-portrait done in pastels, quite a good likeness. He could not have been more pleased with the Hope Diamond. He, in turn, had given her a small, inlaid, wooden music box he'd made. It had been one of the practice projects Karl had assigned him during his apprenticeship, and had several interchangeable drums for the different tunes. He'd made up two new ones upon discovering what some of her favorite songs were. When they could not be together, she had it playing almost constantly, to Daren's increasing chagrin.

Right now, though, it was just the two of them, spread out on the scaffold. Nearly nose to nose. Samantha, who had a pleasing, contralto voice, was softly singing one of the songs Martin had taught her, an old Celtic ballad. Martin idly played with the end of her long ponytail.

She reached the end, tapering off on the final warbling phrase. She'd been propping herself up on one elbow, but now she extended her arm straight out beyond her, to let her upper arm act as a cushion for her head. It brought her face that much closer to his.

Martin sighed, "Tha' was lovely."

"Thank you."

"Th' chorus leader mus' be tha' proud o' ye."

"Oh, he doesn't notice me. He's stuck on sopranos and tenors. The low voices never get to do anything fun." She grinned at him. "That's why I like singing to you. Captive audience."

Martin drew the end of her long headfur to his nose and inhaled deeply.

She giggled. "Why do you do that?"

"I can nivver git enough o' yer scent, lass. Tis most amazin' sweet."

Her answering smile could have kept him warm during an Arctic whiteout. He was glad he didn't have to rely on his knees for support just then.

"Martin?"

He'd never known, until he began hearing it on her tongue, how marvelously melodic a name he had. "Yes, lass?"

"Why haven't you ever tried to kiss me?"

His muzzle fur fluffed out straight, and his eyes got very wide. "I – um – that is – well – ye be …"

"It's not that I'm asking you to." His befuddlement amused her quite a bit, but she let him off the hook anyway. "I just wanted to know your reasons."

"Oh." He took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and to allow his facial fur to settle down. "Full out, then?"

"Yep. Dead true, as you like to say." She dimpled. "If you think you're up to it."

"If I be _up to_ it?" He cocked one eyebrow at her, and grinned. "Don' ye be baitin' _me_, Miss Samantha Foxx! I'll have none o' that from ye." He shook a finger at her, which she caught and moved up against her cheek.

"I'm not baiting you. I'm just curious."

He could deny her nothing in this position, especially while she held his paw so. "Vurra well. Mostly it be because I did'n' want t' be too forward wi' ye. Did'n' want t' scare ye off, or make ye t' feel pressured into something ye might find … distasteful."

Her reaction to that was a brief, chuckling snort. "Dis_**taste**_ful? Are you kidding?"

"Well … no. Ye may be but a slip of a girl, but ye be a lady fer all that, an' me Dad taught me young tha' ladies are t' be treated wi' th' utmost respect."

She found his answer quite charming. "I like that. I think I could get used to being treated like a lady."

"Aye. Spoilin' ye thus would be nice work, if a body could git it."

"You're sweet."

"No more nor what ye deserve, lass."

"So … it wasn't because you didn't want to? Kiss me, I mean?"

"Ah … ahm …" His blush returned in full force. "That is, uh, no. Not _wantin'_ to didna figger into th' picture airy bit. But what wi' th' age difference an' all, I did'n' know how ye'd feel about it." Martin had learned her true age at one point during the trial, when she was asked to state the date of her birth. It had come as something of a shock that he'd missed his estimate by that much, and it solidified his intentions to protect her honor and keep their relationship strictly within the bounds of the ethical.

"You think I'm not old enough to know my own mind?"

"Hardly. I think I may know ye better 'n that. But I was that afeared o' puttin' ye into th' position o' havin' t' make th' choice."

"What if I told you it would be okay? Just once. Just to see."

"Jist t' see … what?"

"To see what it's like."

"I be knowin' what it's like. Ye laid one on me right proper that night we met."

"I wouldn't call _that_ anything _like_ the right atmosphere for a _real_ kiss. Besides, I didn't even know you."

He grinned. "Ah. So ye go around kissin' right strangers, then?"

She actually growled at him. "You meanie! Take that back!"

He chuckled louder as another comeback occurred to him. "Well, I will admit t' bein' a might strange meself, so I s'pose it be fine, then, but really …"

"Take it back, you!" Her paws dove for his ribs, and he convulsed in uncontrollable laughter. He had (unwisely) revealed that he was quite ticklish in one of their earlier conversations, and she was proving out the truth of the statement.

He quickly captured her wrists and rescued his poor, quivering flanks, but she wouldn't stop trying to get to him. He may indeed have had twice her strength, but Samantha was very limber (and very determined), and thwarting her efforts occupied his full attention. She wriggled around and fought until they were jammed up against the safety rail, and she was spread out across him. They were both deeply snared in a fit of giggles.

Martin shrewdly did not release her wrists. She made a few desultory attempts to break free, but then it occurred to her that – in the words of the old country song – he had her right where she wanted him. They both were panting slightly, not winded, but breathing hard, and she had locked her shining, summer-green eyes onto his brown ones. Slowly, she went very soft against him, and lowered her lips to his.

Sparks. Flame. Lightning. Geysers.

_**[ At this point, Gentle Reader, you may feel free to choose your own cheesy metaphor for his reaction to her overture. But please do remember that Martin is the less experienced of the pair. ] **_

His head got alarmingly light as he quickly was lost in the feel and taste of her mouth. Without even knowing he did so, he released her arms and wrapped his own around her slender form. Each of them drew a quick breath, then they repositioned slightly and the kiss deepened. The fingers of his right paw found their way into the headfur at the nape of her neck, and she was gripping his upper arms tightly, moaning low in her throat.

There was a loud creaking, the sound of a door hitting a wall, and, "Sam? You in here, Sis?"

They broke apart with a shock, sitting up quickly and rattling the scaffold. She said, "We're up _hroararghh_ …" and coughed hard twice. After clearing her throat, she tried again. "We're up here, Dare."

"Aye. Lookin' at th' stars."

Samantha peered over the edge at her brother below. He had his arms akimbo and was directing at them a wry gaze of mixed amusement and disgust.

"Yeah, I'm sure. C'mon down. Dad needs to talk to us."

"Okay."

Martin came down first so he could offer her some assistance, even though it was obvious she needed none. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, they clasped paws as soon as they were both at ground level, and then turned to Daren.

"What's Dad need to talk to us about?"

"Well, it was gonna be about the trial. But now it might turn into a lecture about curfews and PDA."

Martin was mortified, both at being caught and at the fact that he let the situation get to that point. But Samantha remained belligerently unrepentant, and stuck out a defiant jaw, remarking, "Not if you don't _tell_ him," in a tone of voice that made it clear that this was the expected outcome.

"Aw. Don't worry about it," he laughed. "You can owe me one. C'mon." He led the way back to the door, which he held open, and waited while they passed him. As Martin went by, Daren reached out and tugged at the collar of his jacket.

Martin jerked to a stop, saying, "What? What's wrong?"

Daren continued his motion, picking a few long, black hairs off the dormouse's garment. "If you wanna keep your necking to yourselves, it might be a good idea to do away with at least some of the evidence."

Martin's deep red blush actually peeked through the stiff, erect fur on his muzzle. "Eh … heh … I be thankin' ye, Daren."

"De nada, mi amigo. Suits me if she wants to hang with you."

Samantha piped up, "Really? Gee, Dare, that's awfully decent of you."

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding, a grin lifting half his face as he edged around in front. "This fella beats the slop outta the creeps you pal around with back home. Maybe he'll settle you down some." And he took off down the hall at top speed.

"_**OOOOOH!**_ Just you wait, Daren Foxx!" And she raced after him.

Martin decided to stay there by himself for a couple of minutes, to see if he could get his bearings back before dropping into the fray again.

##


	14. Chapter 4 The Setup Part C

**_Chapter Four – The Setup – Part C_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Friday 21 October 2016 – 10:00am **_

"Will the defendant please rise?"

The sulky lynx got to his feet, but didn't meet the judge's eyes.

"Samuel Archibald Canadensis, you will now hear the jury's verdict." He turned his gaze to the forefur of the jury and asked her, "On the charge of aggravated assault, what is the jury's verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

"On the charge of battery in the first degree, what is the jury's verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

"On the charge of attempted murder, what is the jury's verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

"On the charge of kidnapping, what is the jury's verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

"On the charge of conspiracy, what is the jury's verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

"On the charge of use of deadly force in the commission of a felony, what is the jury's verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

And so it went. The lightest sentence imposed on any of the defendants was twenty-six years, with parole available in twelve. Eleven of them received at least one sentence of life in prison with no possibility of parole.

In the interesting case of John Damien, since the death penalty was unavailable, the jury recommended nineteen life sentences plus ten thousand years, to be served consecutively. However, the judge determined that to be too harsh, and reduced the sentence to a mere five thousand years. He made sure that Mr. Damien knew he could be paroled in just a little over two thousand years, if he behaved himself.

Red Jack spat at the judge, and was escorted from the chamber.

##

_** 6:15pm **_

After court adjourned, Michael led the procession to one of his favorite Italian restaurants in the city. It went a long way toward getting them all in a better mood. Dark wine flowed, and the company gradually relaxed as the events of the day were discussed and it sank home to all of them that they had won.

Michael was especially jubilant. This had been a pet crusade of his for many years, and to see justice done on such a scale, in such a satisfying manner, guaranteed that he wouldn't come down off his high for many days. "Shut 'em down!" he kept crowing, as the antipasto was passed around. "Shut 'em down for good. They came here to set up shop, and the Good People Of Vermont tarred and feathered 'em and ran 'em outta town on a rail! I tell you, my friends, this restores some of my lost faith in fur-kind."

"Chill, there, Mikey," said Conner, munching on a prosciutto-wrapped melon ball. "This is just the first trial. And you got how many more on the docket?"

"Fourteen, at last count. Nearly two hundred of the movers and shakers in their organization. We'll be busy for the next year and a half, if everything moves along well. But don't you worry. They are _so_ busted. We've got those cases sewn up just as tight as this one was. They don't have a snowball's chance in hell."

Cinnamon cleared her throat pointedly and with a glance indicated her daughter sitting on her other side.

"Oh. Right. Heh-heh. Sorry. Mixed company."

"Yeah. I'm just as happy about it all as you are, though." She gave him a one-armed hug, receiving a quick kiss in return.

Some two hours later, after the salads, toasted ravioli, veal parmagiana, and manicotti; and as they lingered over the tira-misu, flan, and espresso; Michael got their attention and made an announcement.

"I want to thank all of you for your help, your courage, and your steadfast faith in a system that, for once, has worked the way it should. To celebrate, I've arranged a get-together at my place tomorrow night."

There was a general acclamation for his news. "Cool!" "That sounds like fun!" "Free food! Hot dang!"

Debbye had a question. "Your place? Where's that?"

"I don't suppose you know where Dows Crossing is, do you?"

Several heads shook in the negative. Lee said, "Never heard of it."

"How about Cabot?"

"Yeah, that I've heard of. Northeast of here, right?"

"Yeah. And Dows Crossing is north of that. I have a house on several acres east of there. It's in the Skunk Hollow community."

"Pretty place?" asked Sabrina.

"I think so. It might strike some as a bit rustic, but I've entertained there a few times and it seems to work."

"Count me in!"

"The Lieutenant Governor will be there, as well as a couple of other notable political types."

"Lieutenant Governor!"

"Yep. She is _so_ relieved that we got this whole purist crisis behind us. You wouldn't believe what a hit tourism has taken since this mess started."

"Really?" said Conner. "Doesn't seem to have hurt Wendy's business."

"Who?"

"My girlfriend. Wendy Wylde. She operates Ash Creek Inn. It's kinda like a B&B."

"Oh, yes. You mentioned her before. Don't believe we've met, though." He brightened up. "You can feel free to ask her along, too. Dress is casual."

Sabrina asked, "Is that 'casual'-casual, or 'smart'-casual or 'dressy'-casual or 'business'-casual?"

"Say what?"

"That's right!" said Cinnamon. "We need some guidelines. There's a big spread between 'classic black sheath' and 'cutoffs and tee-shirts'. We gotta know where the party dress code falls in that range."

"Yeah, Michael! How will we strut our stuff unless we know the rules of the strut?" And the skunkette gave him a pretty pout.

The bear seemed quite nonplussed. "Uh … well, it's a catered, sit-down affair. And as cold as it's supposed to be, I hadn't planned any outside activities. And, like I said before, there will be some political heavy-hitters there."

"Okay," replied Sabrina, nodding. "Just checking. That'll be dressy-casual or maybe smart-casual."

He gave her an elaborate shrug. "Any time I'm not wearing a coat and tie is casual in my book."

"Now you're talking," said Chris. "That's what I like about being a gold-collar worker. I can pretty much set my own dress code."

"Lucky rascal," replied Michael ruefully. He glanced over at Conner, who was grinning at the two of them, and said, "You, too. You probably don't even _need_ to own more than one suit."

"I don't actually _own_ even _one_. I rented the one I wore in court."

Michael made a few over-done gagging motions, and they laughed.

Chris asked, "So, you planning to give us directions or what?"

"Got 'em right here." He pulled a sheaf of maps out of his briefcase and passed them out. "By the way, is anyfur gonna see Mr. Luscus tomorrow?"

It seemed that no one was. Cinnamon asked, "Where is that big lug, anyway? As much as he likes to eat, I can't imagine him passing up a chance at a free Italian feast."

"Beats me. He left after he testified Wednesday and I haven't seen him since."

"Oh, well. His loss."

Debbye leaned her head close to Lee's and asked, "Do you want to go to this thing tomorrow?"

"Might as well. We don't have any reservations set up yet, so it will probably be late before we could get back home anyway. Why, do you not want to go?"

She allowed herself a small sigh. "I miss Georgie and Linda."

"Yeah. Me, too. Tell ya what. We'll call the travel agency tonight and arrange a flight out early Sunday. How about that?"

"Okay. I guess I can wait one more day. And this does sound like it means a lot to Michael."

"You're right about that."

Chris and Sabrina had driven up from Pennsylvania, and were in no special hurry to leave Vermont, so they thought a party would be just the thing. Conner was looking forward to showing off his gorgeous girlfriend, and meeting the Lieutenant Governor. Daren was anticipating the fancy food. Samantha was happy for one extra day with Martin. The dormouse was racking his brain trying to figure out _some_ way to see her on a regular basis. And Cinnamon … well, as long as she could be with Michael, she didn't really care where they went.

Emily had curled up on her seat and gone to sleep an hour earlier, and voiced no opinion one way or another.

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – noonish **_

Karl was back upstairs in his loft, having closed the Shop for the day, when his private line rang. The CID read 'Cinnamon Jones' so he flipped it on.

"Hey, Cinnamon. How's tricks?"

"There you are! I was about ready to believe you'd crawled down a hole and pulled it in after you."

"Heh. No. Just been busy with the Shop. Between the trial and some other – things – work kind of piled up. What's on your mind?"

"Michael's having a party to celebrate the convictions."

"Oh? When and where?"

"His place, five-thirty tonight."

"Hm. That's short notice. And where is his place?"

"I've got a map with your name on it. I'll drop it by later, if you like. Or you can just follow me. I'll be leaving in little over three hours."

"Does it have his address on it?"

"Yep."

"If I have that, I don't need the map."

"Oh. Okay." She read it off to him.

"Dows Crossing, huh? I've never been through that part of the state."

"Neither have I. I knew he had a sort of country place out there, but I've only ever been to his apartment in Montpelier."

"Behaving yourself, I trust?"

She could hear his grin over the phone, and affected a haughty tone. "One's private dealings are none of your affair, Sirrah."

"Right. I wish you both the best."

"Thanks, Karl. I appreciate that. He's a wonderful guy."

"So who will be coming to this party?"

"Pretty much everybody, it sounds like. He's got the Lieutenant Governor and her husband coming, and the Chief of the State Police and his wife, plus all of us that were involved in what those lousy purists did."

"That should be quite a crowd. And with the heavy hitters on board, I imagine there will be pretty tight security, yes?"

"I guess. That's gotta be standard for high-government types."

"I'm sure. Especially considering that quite a few of the lower-level Knights escaped capture. I'm sure some of them are still around, and they might pose a danger."

"Well, Michael's a thorough kind of guy. He's not one to forget about something like that." She snapped her fingers and said, "Oh, I almost forgot. He said you could bring a date if you like."

"He did, did he?"

"Yep."

"And did he have anyone in mind?"

She had to laugh at that. "Just thought I'd mention it. Martin and Samantha are a pretty well confirmed couple now, which just leaves you and Conner as 'officially' unattached, and he's bringing Wendy, so I guess he didn't want you to feel like an extra wheel."

_He's bringing Wendy._

_Wendy will be there._

_He's bringing Wendy._

_Wendy will be there as Conner's date._

_He's bringing Wendy._

_Wendy will be there as Conner's date, and will most likely be dressed to kill._

_He's bringing Wendy. …_

"Karl?"

"Hmm?"

"I said, can we expect to see you?"

"Uh … I don't know. I'll see if I can make it."

"Free food. Lots of it. And a whole lot of furs who'd like to shake your paw and thank you for what you did."

"We'll see. It depends on a lot of things. I may drop by."

"Okay. Suit yourself. But I hope we'll see you there."

"Perhaps."

"Well, consider yourself invited. I've gotta go."

"Okay. Take care."

After she hung up the phone, Cinnamon headed back to her kiln in the barn, thinking that the conversation had taken an odd turn there at the end. She went through their chat again in her head, and her eyes got very wide as a possible explanation occurred to her. But after considering it, she shook her head. "Naw. Can't be. She is _so_ not his type."

##

Michael Truefoot had chosen Millicent's Prestige Catering for his party nearly a month earlier, and had never seen any reason to change his mind. He'd planned to have this get-together regardless of the outcome of the trial. Unfortunately, he never made the connection that all the pertinent information had been on his computer before Vivien Onca destroyed it.

Millicent Lutreola had been delighted with the job. The pert mink thought highly of Michael, having worked for him before, and knew he'd spare no expense to make the party enjoyable. He hadn't disappointed her when he let her know how many would be attending, and what he wanted her to prepare for them.

She'd gotten most of the food ready early that morning, and the parts that needed final preparation packaged accordingly. Around one o'clock, she and three of her employees transferred the cold foods to the refrigerated step-van, and the rest to the catering truck. They'd leave by two so as to have enough time to get everything set up before the guests began arriving. Meanwhile, they were putting the finishing touches on the centerpieces they'd be using, and chatting about getting to work with Lieutenant Governor Proso. This could turn out to be quite a break, if they could impress her. Catering the Capitol functions would be a marvelous boost for business.

They heard the chime on the front door, and Millicent frowned. "Allyce, I told you to lock up."

"I thought I did! I was sure I locked the door and put out the CLOSED sign."

A soprano voice floated in from the front, "Hello? Anybody back there?"

Miss Lutreola glowered at her assistant. "Well, obviously you thought wrong. Why don't you go see what she wants?"

The little poodle-squirrel hybrid bustled out through the curtain that hung over the door, and Millicent heard her say, "May I help you?"

"Could we speak to the owner, please?"

"Yes, of course. Let me get her for you." And in a few seconds, Allyce came back through the curtain. "Milli, there are three furs out here that would like to … oh! Excuse me, sir, but you can't come back here! Employees only!"

The trio struck Millicent as _very_ unusual. The jaguar in the middle, although very tall and muscular, was of normal coloration. But the two weasels! One male and one femme, their fur had been clipped short in a vertical stripe pattern, each trough maybe four centimeters wide, and bleached to a dead white. Then the long fur left between the stripes was dyed in alternating electric blue and metallic green. It was the weirdest clip job any of the caterers had ever seen.

"What … what can we do for you?"

The jaguar gave her a courtly bow and said, "I have an important message in regard to the Lieutenant Governor. Would you please call the rest of your employees out for a conference?"

"Uh … this _is_ all of us. All the ones that came to work today."

"Very good." And he nodded once.

The weasels produced a pair of small-caliber pistols, and fired four times each.

Grosvenor indicated the rear of the building. "Put them in the freezer." Then he flipped open a small PA and said, "It's a go. Thomas, Fred, and Lyle, take the truck. Leslie and Aaron will go in the reefer." He waited for confirmation, and then snapped it shut. Eyes nearly glowing in anticipation, he said, "Payback time. Strap it in, ladies and gentlefurs."

##


	15. Chapter 5 Outcomes Part A

**_Chapter Five – Outcomes – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**We understand death for the first time  
****when he puts his hand upon one whom we love.**

_**- Madame De Stael**_

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 1:00pm **_

"Excuse me." The corporal stepped into the commons room, walked over to Lee and extended a phone to him. "Call for you, Mr. Evans."

"Thank you." Lee took the proffered pawset, put it to his ear and said, "Hello?"

"Lee, my boy! I was wondering if you'd be interested in doing a little target shooting while you're out here later."

"Oh, hi, Michael. Target shooting?"

"Yes, I have a forty-meter range behind the house."

"Wow. Um … let me ask." He took the unit away from his face, covered it with a paw, and turned to his wife. "Hon?"

"What's up?"

"Michael has a firing range at his place. Wants to know if we'd like to shoot."

"I thought he said there wouldn't be any outside activities."

"Looks like he changed his mind."

She shrugged. "Fine by me. I don't have my earmuffs though."

He spoke into the pawset again. "Do you have ear protection, Michael?"

"Sure do. For a variety of species."

"Okay, then. We'll be sure to have our pistols." He paused a bit, and then asked, "What made you think of this?"

"Well, I knew you'd brought some firepower back with you, and you'd mentioned before that the two of you liked to shoot. It seemed logical."

"Uh … How did you know …?"

"About the guns? Soldiers talk, Lee. You should know that. Your late-night arrival was all over the compound by dawn, and the fact that you had some extra weapons. And armor."

"Ah. Right. Okay, then."

"You want to bring your rifles, too? It _is_ forty meters."

"No offense, Michael, but at that range, with those rifles, the only competition would be to see whether we could put our slugs into the target through the same hole without messing up the edges. We'll just bring our pawguns."

"Riiiiight. Suit yourself. See you later!"

"Yeah. See you."

##

_** 1:30pm **_

Chris wandered into the common room and spotted his wife. She was on the secure phone, and having a rather animated conversation with someone.

". . . . . Attorney General's throwing a party, so we – huh? . . . . . Yeah! Sure, if you think you're up to it, but I don't … wha … um . . . . . . Heck, no, I don't mind a bit, as long as Sean and Flossie are okay with it. . . . . . Whatever you want, Tab. If it makes everybody else happy, it makes me happy. It'll mean I can 'sleep in' the rest of the week, and after the times we've had here, I need it! . . . . . Right. Probably late tomorrow, unless we get up really early. . . . . . Weird! And you're telling me this was all Terl's idea? . . . . . Well, that's just a little – I dunno, a little weird. . . . . . Because! He just never struck me as a kid-furson. And you two haven't said anything about children, at least not yet, so I just naturally assumed. . . . . . I _know_ you're only twenty-three! You're my sister, remember? . . . . . Yeah, you'd said Alice cozied right up to him as soon as she got there. . . . . . Yeah, you told me that before. So what does that have to do with . . . . . She did _what?_ . . . . . Are you serious? . . . . . But how . . . . . No, never! . . . . . How could she do that? . . . . . That is too weird. . . . . . No, I _don't_ think I'm overusing that word. It's a weird situation. . . . . ."

Chris was giving her 'the eye' and tapping his foot expectantly. She successfully ignored him.

"Wait a minute! Are you sure she did it on purpose? . . . . . Because she's not even four years old, that's why! . . . . . Oh, come on! You might be a super-genius now, but you were tearing up the house and terrorizing my friends when you were three-and-a-half. . . . . . How could she possibly know anything about that? She doesn't even know how to read! . . . . . _What?_ . . . . . When did _that_ happen? . . . . . Good Lord Almighty, Tab! I'm her mother! How come I don't know any of this?"

Chris couldn't take it any longer. "What gives? What's up with Alice?"

Sabrina held up a paw, asking him to wait. "Tab, _nobody_ learns to read in one week. . . . . . I don't care how good a teacher Terl is, it just isn't . . . . . Okay, _this_ I have to see for myself. . . . . . What, like 'Hop On Pop' or something? . . . . . Really? _The Wind in the Willows?_ The whole thing? . . . . . In _how_ long?"

"Who learned to read? Did Alice learn to read?" Chris demanded. "What's going on?"

Sabrina shook her paw at him, concentrating on what Tabitha was saying. "Huh? I'm sorry, Chris asked me something. What was that last you said? . . . . . _Power series!_ You can't be serious!"

"What? What's that?"

" . . . . . I'll believe it when I see it. Something else has to be going on with that. I've done a lot of reading on this developmental-stage stuff. No child of not-quite-four has the physical nerve development to handle that kind of thing! They don't even have the neural network for fine motor skills, for cryin' out loud! . . . . . Fine. . . . . . Fine. . . . . . If you say so. . . . . . Okay, you go to your meeting or seminar or whatever it is, but call me back as soon as you get home. We are _definitely_ gonna _talk_ about this! . . . . . Okay, love you, too! 'Bye."

"You planning to leave me in the dark, or …"

"Tabitha says Alice helped Terl with his research."

" … Say what?"

"I don't believe it either. She said Terl was at his workstation when Alice came up and asked what he was doing, and when he told her, she stared at the screen full of equations for a minute and then pointed out to him which curve was off. He checked it, punched in the revision she suggested, and everything 'optimized', to use her word. Whatever that means. All that temporal research stuff is over my head like a circus tent."

Chris' mouth worked itself open and closed a few times.

Sabrina nodded. "Yeah. That was my reaction."

"But that just ain't possible!"

"I know. Don't shoot the messenger, I'm just telling you what she told me."

"And she says Alice is _reading_?"

"Uh-huh. Reading well, according to her. And doing math. Higher math. She said Alice knew her multiplication tables already, and mastered algebra, geometry, and trig in the last three days, and this morning Terl introduced her to differential calculus."

"But she's _three!_"

Sabrina shrugged. "Something funny going on. I guess we'll get to the bottom of it when we get back home. But I said it was okay for them to stay there another week. She said the kids were having a great time."

"At that rate she'll be applying to Oxford by the time we get back."

"There has to be some other explanation. Tabitha has never been into mind-altering substances, but this whole thing sounds like a hallucination to me. So I'm just not going to worry about it."

"Huh." Chris looked distraught.

Sabrina stepped over to him and put her arms around his waist. "Don't be _too_ upset, dear. This will give us a little privacy we don't usually get."

He shook his head and grinned, returning her embrace. "And I'll never turn that down, no matter the reason."

##

_** 2:30pm **_

Karl lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't moved in the last hour, as he went over the possible outcomes for the evening for perhaps the six hundredth time.

_I will see Wendy._

_She will be with Conner._

_They will be a couple._

_Knowing her proclivities, if she hasn't convinced him to get in the sack with her yet, she soon will._

_I will have to smile, shake paws, make pleasant small talk._

_I will have to do this, knowing they are together, knowing what could have been, and knowing it was my decision._

_When one chooses a course of action, one had better damned well be prepared to take the consequences of that course of action._

_I am not ready for those consequences. Not yet._

_It would feel like death.  
And I am not ready to die._

He simply could not go. He could not be there, in the same room with her and her lover. If he tried it, he was positive he would give something away. At this point it was a near certainty that she had no inkling of his true feelings, and he'd like to keep it that way. It would put both of them in a very awkward spot if she realized the depth of his affection for her. And above all else, he wished to avoid giving Wendy any emotional pain or conflict. She deserved better.

_She deserves the best. Someone better than I, that's for sure._

No. This afternoon, he would go through his terrorism surveillance programs, see about getting another mole program established, and get caught up on how close the ISB was to locating him. After all, he knew they would, sooner or later.

_And I certainly can't drag her into that mess. What was I ever thinking, getting involved in her life?_

_You **weren't** thinking. Not with your **big** head at any rate._

_You again?_

_I'm never far away._

He sighed, pushed the internal conversation back in its hole, and got up. Food first. Then the computer. Then, if it wasn't too late and he felt like it, maybe he'd work on that special project in the sub-basement.

##

_** 4:20pm **_

There were three State Troopers and four representatives of the Vermont Office of Homeland Security who had been out at Michael's place since early morning, checking the house for explosives and the surrounding woods for undesirables. The HomeSec team posted one fur on the roof, one in the woods near the main road on the ridge to the south, one at the east edge of the back yard, and one where the driveway widened out as it approached the house. One of the Troopers made a patrol, compassing the property about twice an hour, while the other two were to stay in the house. None of them really expected any trouble, but they all took their jobs seriously, and they executed each task with care.

Michael had been disappointed that Millicent herself could not make it. But the note she'd written him, explaining about her sinus infection and excusing herself from the festivities, sounded just like her. Always putting the good of the customer first. The three waiters she'd sent, a matched trio of Doberman pinschers in absolutely severe white tuxedos, went a long way toward mollifying him.

They went about the setup in a swift and professional manner, and were just putting the last touches on the centerpieces and place settings around the large, oval table Michael had brought into the great room. And it was still over an hour until the guests were to arrive. Michael was impressed. So was Cinnamon, and she said as much.

"Thank you, madam," replied one of the waiters in his stiff and effortlessly correct style. "Mistress Lutreola will be most gratified." She failed to notice, as she turned away, the way his eyes narrowed darkly as he watched her.

She still hadn't quite gotten over the cooks, though. Michael thought they looked pretty weird, but then in his job he got to see a lot of odd things done to fur. "Have you watched one of those high-fashion shows recently? The European idea of beauty these days involves a lot of bizarre clip-jobs. Those are pretty tame, compared with some."

"No – Thank – You! I like my fur in its natural color."

He leaned over and nuzzled her neck. "So do I."

(If only squirrels could purr …)

##

Two of the 'waiters' stood at attention on either side of the door to the kitchen. The third had gone back in to where the 'cooks' were working. He walked over to the north side of the room, cracked a window, and donned a pair of specially filtered glasses, which caught and amplified ultraviolet light. He used a small u-v strobe to generate one brief flash, waited for the answering black light flash, and then trained his tight-beam comm unit on that spot near the top of the hill.

"Marks secured," he whispered. "Device in place and operable, will deliver at minus four minutes." He waited again, for the single flash confirming transmission, then closed the window and stowed his gear back in a drawer under one of the rolling carts they had brought in from the truck. They would use those carts to transport things from the kitchen to the dining area. Things like food, plates, serving dishes, the chafing dish. Among other items.

##

Snugly ensconced in his blind, Grosvenor was satisfied with this afternoon's progress. His operatives were in place, the device was armed, and he had all the cops tagged. _Perfect! Nothing left to do but pass out the body-bags._ He could scarcely contain his impatience as he waited for the mealtime hour.

##

_** 5:10pm **_

The big truck topped the final hill before the turn-off to Michael's place. The setting sun shone from behind them, washing the whole scene in reflected gold, picking out some of the small details. Wendy pulled her watch out of her reticule and read the dial. "If this is your idea of 'fashionably late', I need to give you a refresher course."

Conner never cracked a smile as he offered the response, "Time warp. Noticed it as we passed through Plainfield. I was surprised you didn't say somethin' about it at the time."

She punched him lightly in the arm. "Oh, you!"

He grinned then, but didn't make any further comments.

"Oh, I meant to ask. Where's Lin tonight? Does he ever come to things like this with you?"

"No. He doesn't much like other furs. Doesn't trust 'em." He chuckled softly. "Besides, if I brought that pony-sized wolf to the party, I don't think there'd be too many stickin' around for dessert."

"Yeah, okay. Understandable." She sat up a little and pointed. "That's it."

"I see it." He turned left and they immediately went down a steep grade before turning back to the right to follow the winding drive down the breast of the hill.

The vixen drew her breath sharply. "Holy shit! Looks like Michael's done pretty well for himself."

"Uh-huh," agreed the wolf.

Michael had chosen a small valley with an elongated bowl shape as the site for his house. They approached it from the south, and across the gorge the north-side hill faced them at the same height. The Attorney General's home, on the valley floor, was perhaps seventy or eighty meters below them, nestled in beside the rocky brook that meandered roughly due east, matching direction with the front of the house. The dwelling was large, a tall, sprawling log structure, mainly on one level, with three modules of some kind sprouting off from the main body of the house. Several chimneys decorated the roofs, and smoke was coming from four of them. As they tracked around through the few switchbacks and hairpins needed to get down there, they caught glimpses of the huge expanse of porch on the house's eastward front face. It was a modified A-frame at that point, the peak of the roof standing some eight meters from the ground, the top half above the porch roof all glass. The closer they got, the more Wendy drank in the details.

"Beautiful! Just gorgeous! Look at that little covered stone footbridge over the stream! Is that the cutest thing you ever saw?"

Conner whistled. "Look at the size of those logs! That place must have cost him a small fortune."

"I guess the Attorney-General gig pays pretty well."

He commented dryly, "Kick-backs pay better."

"Conner! How can you say that about Michael after all he's done for us?"

"Easy." He shrugged in an off-paw manner. "I'm disgustingly familiar with furry nature. Everyfur has a price." He chuckled and added, "Present company excepted."

"Not everyfur."

"No? You personal friends with a saint I don't know about?"

"I don't think, for one, that Martin O'Musca could be bought at any price. He's probably the most honest, decent, stable fur I've ever met."

"Really? Martin?"

"From what I've been able to see so far, yes." She nodded decisively. "He's almost too nice a guy to be real. I really think he is, though. Real, I mean."

"Huh. Well, I don't know him very well." He glanced at her. "I'm kinda surprised you didn't mention Karl. He's a real stand-up guy."

"Karl? You think so? Have you talked to him much?"

"Some. Why?"

"He's got a past. He was into some heavy-duty stuff before he got so turned-on to being a part of the God squad."

"Izzat right? That where he picked up that martial arts training?"

"I guess. Anyway, a lot of what I know about him is basically that I _don't_ know a lot about him. But I _do_ know a good bit about Martin's past, and that combined with what he did for Sam … Well, I stand by my statement."

"I dunno," he replied as they pulled into one of the dozen or so parking spots. "I really believe that everybody has a hot button. Something he cares about so much that he'd do anything to get it, or save it, or protect it." He frowned for a second and amended his statement. "Everyfur who isn't terminally depressed, that is."

"Oh sure, when you put it that way. He'd probably pay any price or do any_thing_ to save Samantha, if it was his choice. But I'm talking about the baser things. You know: Prestige. Power. Cold, hard cash. That kind of stuff."

"Yeah, okay. Money doesn't do it for everyone." He got out and trotted around to Wendy's door, opening it and offering a paw. "Let's go take a look at the digs. Betcha he's got some swank chow set out for us."

"You're such a subtle thing. It's a wonder anyfur can _ever_ figure out what's on your mind."

"Heh. I've built up a total immunity to sarcasm. I just call 'em like I see 'em."

She favored him with half a smirk. "'_As_', hon. '_As_ I see 'em.'"

He gave her a sideways look and shook his head. Clearing his throat, he thought for a moment, then struck a dramatic pose and said, "Let us repair to yon domicile in order to partake of the delectable comestibles with which our gracious host is predisposed to …"

"Ackk! Stop! Geez! Mercy!" She covered her ears.

"Hey. You asked for it."

"Shame on me. I'll behave."

"Very well." He offered her his arm, which she took, and they proceeded to the front door. On the way she glanced pointedly at Conner's hip. "You planning to wear that thing to the party?"

"Why not?"

"It hardly qualifies as 'chic'."

"It doesn't have to." He gave an elaborate sigh. "Tell you what. If Michael objects, I'll put the Ruger out of sight. But I'm keeping the Lady."

She shrugged. "That's between you and Michael. I've offered my opinion, and that's all I feel compelled to do."

"And I respect your opinion. I may ignore it, but I respect it."

A quirked eyebrow was her only answer to that.

##


	16. Chapter 5 Outcomes Part B

**_Chapter Five – Outcomes – Part B _**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 5:50pm **_

Michael's guests had been very punctual. Lucia and Henry Proso arrived shortly after Wendy and Conner, bringing a couple of State Service agents along for good measure. The Lieutenant Governor kept congratulating Michael for 'getting his fur', but her husband made straight for the hors d'oeuvres. The convoy bearing the Evanses showed up precisely at five-thirty. There wasn't really anywhere to park the big military transport, so the soldiers of the escort drove over to St. Johnsbury for their supper. And the Foxxes, with Martin along for the ride, had followed them, and pulled up beside the house while Lee was still shaking paws with the Attorney General.

Everyone had gotten comfortable in his or her own way. Most stood or sat near the huge, fieldstone fireplace in the great room, sipping the excellent mulled cider. Michael had provided both hard and soft varieties.

A few of the femmes had staked out a large sofa below the big windows, and chatted amiably. Sabrina commented on Debbye's gown, a flattering royal-blue number of mid-calf-length with a center section and sleeves of ivory brocade and illusion lace. It was the only piece of semi-formal attire in evidence, and her friends were razzing her about it, so she offered an explanation: "See, I got a great deal on this thing." She turned to Sabrina. "You remember how Susan took me around shopping after Lee invited me to that party his boss threw?"

The skunkette took a quick drink and nodded. "You were a basket case. Had to find just the right dress. I remember. It's been nearly twenty years, but I remember."

"Only seventeen," chuckled Debbye, "but, well, this is it. I wore it that night after Lee met my parents."

Lucia Proso started visibly at that comment, but no one else seemed to notice. _She can still wear a dress she bought as a teenager?_ She'd done a spot of reading on the Evanses, and knew their ages, and had been more than a little surprised at how good they both looked. Ruefully now, she chided herself for not keeping up with her aerobics. Though she had never been what one would call strikingly pretty, and her personality made up for any lack, she still felt she should have kept herself up a little better. _Ah, well. Henry still thinks I'm beautiful, and his opinion is the only one I really care about._ She was, after all, pushing fifty. And one couldn't have everything.

"What prompted you to bring it along on vacation?"

"What else? The chance that I might get to wear it." Debbye paused, and giggled. "After that night, that one time I wore it, I covered it with a plastic drape and hung it in the closet, and there it stayed for over nine years."

Lucia gaped. "You're kidding."

"Nope. I forgot it was there. We didn't go out to any really nice places for a long time, see. Lee was working his way up the corporate structure, but then we got that big house, and money wasn't really plentiful. Besides, we both enjoyed doing simpler things together, and by the time life eased off to the point that we could go out somewhere posh if we felt like it, I'd forgotten all about that dress."

"But you have it now," Wendy pointed out.

"Yes, I do. There was this big affair at corporate headquarters, and they had planned a dance to finish out the evening. So I was looking through my closets for something appropriate, and voila! There it was." She glanced around to make sure none of the males was close enough to eavesdrop. "After we got home, we danced some more, and I … um … well, I did a little … special dance for him." She leaned back and took another sip. "Nine months later, the twins came along."

Sabrina was highly amused. "Ha! A fertility gown, is it?"

"Don't know as I'd go that far. It's true that we'd been trying for a good long while, with no success. But that night …" She gazed off distractedly. "That night was … very special."

"If you were trying all the time, how do you know it was that night?" asked Wendy.

"Well, Lee had been really busy at work for over three weeks before. Big project deadlines. He was too busy for, um, distractions. And then right after that party, he was sent to Brazil for two weeks to oversee a new installation of some sort." She smiled to herself. "I'm sure."

"Have you worn it since then?"

"A couple of times, yes."

"And no more kids? It must not be magic." Wendy stifled a laugh.

"I didn't say it was. But we didn't … that is, after wearing it, we never … um …"

"Oh. Well, then." Wendy leaned in close. "You should definitely try the experiment again. For the sake of science."

Debbye gazed at her husband across the room and pretended to consider the vixen's suggestion. "Hmm. Science. Yes. Good point. I'll have to, uh, bring that up later tonight."

"You gals talking about science? Who woulda thunk it?" Conner had ambled up and heard the tail end of the conversation.

Wendy stood and took his arm. "Shows what you know! We have all sorts of erudite chats when the guys aren't around to hear." She steered him back toward the fireplace, giving Debbye a wink in parting.

##

_** 6:10pm **_

Michael was berating himself. "Me and my senile excuse for a brain. I'm going to be a real study when I get old. I can't remember anything now."

"You needn't be quite so hard on yourself," Lee reassured him. "It's a natural mistake. I didn't think about it being too dark for proper shooting either."

"But you don't live here. I _know_ how early the sun sets in these parts, especially down in this hole the way we are. It's dusk now, and it'll be full dark in another half hour. Forty-five minutes, tops."

Cinnamon didn't mind a bit. "Just means I won't have to share you with the firing range."

"You could come out here and do some shooting with Michael some time," Lee offered. "It's quite the enjoyable occasion."

"Says you. I don't 'do' guns. Never have, and never hope to."

Lee chuckled quietly. "Sounds like the voice of _in_experience."

"And happy to stick with my blissful ignorance, thanks."

Michael gave her a quick squeeze. "That suits me, kiddo." Addressing Lee, he said, "If you want to, you can leave the cases in the closet off the foyer. They'll be safe there."

"Okay. Good choice. Just don't let me forget them when we leave."

Michael put a vacant expression on his face, miming the idiot. "Duuuhhh … Forget whut? Who're you, mister? Whose house is dis?"

Cinnamon grabbed his ear and tugged him down to her level. In a stage-whisper, she commanded, "Play nice with your guests, dear."

He grinned, and pulled her into his arms. "You're the boss." He caught Lee's eye. "Say, would you like to see the barbecue-cum-bonfire pit?"

"Sure! Lead on!"

##

Emily was bored off her nut. She thought Mr. Mike was neat, but sometimes she didn't like the way he would hog all her Mom's attention. And they had called this thing a _party_, but _she_ didn't see any party, just a buncha grown-ups just _standin'_ around and _talkin'_ and not paying her the _least bit_ of attention, and there wasn't even any decent _food_ or _nothin'_! Just a plate of hard bread-crust things and a bowl of little, gooey, round, _black_ things that smelled like raw _fish_, and some little pieces of greenish-yellow _cheese_ with toothpicks stuck in them, and she just _knew_ they were spoiled. They smelled _awful_. Yuck. And the grown-ups were eatin' those nasty things just like they had good sense. Double-yuck.

She wandered through the big house, trying to find something to play with, but since Michael hadn't spent that much time out here, it was rather on the Spartan side. Going through one door, she caught the smell of food preparation, and followed her nose to the remote kitchen, where she lingered just outside the doorway. She could hear someone moving around, making cooking sounds, and peeked around to get a look. She had to stifle a giggle when she saw them.

_Clowns! This really __**is**__ really, really gonna be a for-real party!_

But the clowns weren't doing funny things yet, just cooking. It smelled good, too!

She slipped into the room and scooted over behind one of the three linen-draped carts they had lined up in front of the counter by the door, watching the cooks carefully around one side of the central island. They really didn't look like any clowns she'd ever seen before, but she couldn't think of what else they may be.

One of them tossed the contents of a sauté pan into a serving dish and turned to bring it over to the cart. Emily darted under the drape and huddled in the center of the cart, suddenly hoping she wouldn't be found. This was at least _something_ like a game.

She waited a minute, then quietly eased herself over to the next cart. It was different, though, and posed her an immediate problem. Where the first cart had been nothing but a large space below its top, this one had a lower shelf, just a couple of centimeters above the wheels. She nearly knocked her shin on it, but recovered quickly enough to scoot up on it instead. Then her eyes widened in delight.

_Buttons! Hot dog!_

The carts had a large footprint, maybe a meter and a half long by nearly a meter wide, and the heavy draping hid even the wheels. Emily had plenty of room, the large, black box notwithstanding. The top of the box had a small keypad on it that looked a lot like the one on her Mom's PA. Right above the keypad was an LED display, and above that another row of buttons. The display showed a series of numbers in a muted blue tone. Emily began poking at the buttons on the keypad, pretending to dial her friend Janey. She punched a few of the buttons in the upper row as well, and the display started blinking.

_Sweet!_

She happily tapped the buttons for a minute or so, until she heard someone else come into the kitchen. He had a deep, gruff voice, and he said some things that bothered her.

"Either o' you seen that little scumbreed brat?"

"You mean lately? Not me." "Nope. Not nose nor tail."

"Well, she's snooping around. Keep an eye out. We're too close now to have things go to hell because of some damn 'breed kid."

"You oughta be watching your language, Fred. You'll let something slip yourself, just out of habit."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, thank you! And fuck _you_! Fuck you very much!"

"Just keep a sharp eye, right?"

"Yeah, whatever. But you can see she ain't here. _You_ go keep a lookout."

"I'll just do that little thing." And Emily heard him stomp out of the room.

"Jackass."

"Yeah. Sumbitch thinks he's better'n God."

The other one snickered at that.

Emily sat very still, thinking hard. She didn't understand much of what had been said, but she knew she didn't like the tone of the conversation. She _really_ didn't like it. She began to be just a little bit afraid.

She looked back at the little blue numbers on the box, but she didn't feel like playing with them anymore. They were blinking on their own now. She could recognize her numbers (well, most of them, most of the time) and liked to read her counting books with her Mom. And these numbers she could read well enough, though she didn't have any idea what they signified.

… _**03:14 …**_

… _**03:13 …**_

… _**03:12 …**_

… _**03:11 …**_

She heard more footsteps, and listened carefully.

"Okay, you! Over there. By the sink." It was a new voice.

"What's the idea, officer? I don't understand!" That was the gruff voice from before.

"Oh, I think you do. Hey, Tom, you get the others?"

A female voice broke in. "Officer! I protest this outrage! How dare you point a gun at us! We've done nothing wrong!"

"Uh-huh. We'll see. And it's 'sergeant', not 'officer'. There's a difference."

More footsteps. "Okay, Harv. Here's one of 'em. Don't know where the third one got to."

Emily chanced a peek through the drapes at one corner. The two Troopers had the waiters and the clowns lined up against the counter on the far side of the room.

"All right, gang. I'm _quite_ sure you know the drill. Turn around, put your paws on the cabinets over your head, and spread your legs."

"I'll do no such thing!"

"Then you will be _shot_ before being frisked. Mr. Tuvolov."

Emily heard a sharp gasp, then the sound of shuffling feet, then several thuds and slaps as the purists complied with the lawfur's request, their paws meeting the cabinets. The Trooper that had been talking smiled grimly. "That's a pretty good clip job you got there, Aaron. Too bad you couldn't have planned on running into me. So, where's the rest of your outfit? Hiding out in the hills? You in this with Grosvenor?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! Who's Grosvenor?"

Emily glanced at the box again.

… _**02:48 …**_

… _**02:47 …**_

… _**02:46 …**_

The big Trooper gave a short bark of a laugh. "That's a good one! 'Who's Grosvenor?' Your gang leader. The guy who sprang you from prison four years ago. Remember?"

The 'cook' didn't answer.

Trooper 'Tom' finished searching the four grumbling furs. "Looks like we have us a bunch of winners here, Harv. Got five knives and a pawgun. And what's this wire?"

Emily had heard more than enough to make her want to be elsewhere. They were all faced away from the door, so she slipped out from under the drapes and eased silently down the hall. She had to find her mother. As she left, she heard the Trooper say, "Tom, go ahead and call Bo and let him know what's up. See if he can round up the other one. And he needs to be quiet about it. No sense in upsettin' the A-G yet."

##

Emily scampered back out to the bonfire on the wide patio and found her mother with Mr. Mike and a group of other furs. "Mom! Mom!" she whispered. "I need t' tell you somefin!" Her tail flicked rapidly with impatience.

Cinnamon giggled at a remark Michael had made, then noticed Emily. "Hi, sweetie. Mommy can't talk now."

"But Mom, I gotta tell you somefin!"

Her mother seemed quite distracted by what her companion was saying. "In a few minutes, okay?"

"No, Mom! Now!"

Cinnamon frowned and gave her daughter a stern look. "Young lady, you will not take that tone of voice with me."

"But Mom …"

"Emily!"

The tiny squirrel hybrid seemed to shrink a little at the heavy dose of disapproval in Cinnamon's voice. The others in the group had stopped talking and were watching the interchange.

"Emily, unless something is on fire or somebody is bleeding, there is no excuse for interrupting someone else's conversation like that. It is _very_ rude. Now you go and play for a while and think about that, and I'll talk to you later."

"Yes'm." She left immediately, not wanting to be in the disciplinary spotlight, and headed for the big oak beside the driveway.

##

Lieutenant Badger didn't like what he'd been told. "How could the guy just disappear? He was right outside that door not two minutes ago!"

… _**01:03 …**_

The voice on the radio sounded just as exasperated. "If I knew that, I'd have him by now. I'll get Erek to keep an eye peeled for him, but he already said that he hadn't seen anybody leave. And a Doberman in a white tux would be hard to miss."

… _**00:55 …**_

"Copy that. And get on the land-line to headquarters. Tell them we may need some backup in here pronto."

"Roger."

… _**00:48 …**_

##

_** 6:18pm **_

Cinnamon asked, "Anybody need more cider?"

Conner held out his glass. "I could do with a spot."

Debbye nodded. "Me, too. As long as it's hot." She repositioned her scarf to cover her ears.

"Hey, why don't we all go inside?" suggested Michael. "It's not long at all until the food will be ready." He pulled out his watch and clucked his tongue at the time. "Ten minutes or so. And I don't know about you, but it's getting a little nippy out here for my blood. That cold front that pushed the rain through this afternoon seems to be settling in."

Wendy, who was crowding as close as she could get to the fire, heartily agreed. "You know, you sometimes don't realize how cold it really is getting until someone else points out the obvious. I'm all for indoors!"

Lucia Proso had stayed in the house with the Foxxes (and Martin – he and Samantha were inseparable, of course) in the first place, and so the rest of the guests decided to join them.

##

Fred Hund, the third, and still missing, Doberman, had shed his white coat and secreted himself in the bushes under the window not too far from the patio. He was sweating despite the increasing cold. _How'd that slimeball cop blow our cover? Grosvenor's gonna rip me a new one if this thing goes south._ He knew they hadn't set the timer on the bomb. It was armed, but idle. _Maybe I can sneak back inside … no, dammit, the cops are in the kitchen! Wait, maybe if they arrest the others, they'll leave the kitchen unguarded long enough … No, they'd see me …_

Although Fred wasn't a rocket scientist, neither was he an idiot. This situation, however, was taxing his brainpower. He feared to move: he was afraid that black-suited type out at the edge of the driveway would spot him. He didn't care for that fur's weapon at all! He kept a close eye on the group around the bonfire, his pistol ready in his paw, waiting for some kind of opening, some sort of signal …

##

"Where's Emily?" asked Cinnamon.

Conner pointed. "Over in that tree, last I saw. She's a good climber."

Lee snickered. "Better than you know." He caught Cinnamon's attention. "Would you like for me to go fetch her?"

"That'd be nice."

"Don't worry yourself, Lee," said Michael. "I'll get her." And he trotted over to the edge of the forest.

Lee and Debbye, arms around each other, ambled toward the house. Wendy had gone a few steps in the same direction before noticing that Conner wasn't at her side. She turned back to see him and Henry Proso still standing beside the fire. He extracted a couple of cheroots from a slim metal case, offering one to Henry. Each male bit the end off, struck a match, and lit his cigar.

… _**00:21 …**_

She pursed her lips in disapproval. "Those coffin nails will catch up with you sooner or later."

Conner took a long drag and blew the smoke upwards. "You wouldn't deprive an honest fur of his nicotine, now would you, darlin'?"

"It's the nicotine that's doing the depriving. Of your breath, and eventually your life."

Henry seemed disinclined to chat. He tended his smoke in silence, an amused expression on his face as he watched their interchange.

… _**00:12 …**_

Conner gave a short laugh. "And in the mean time, I'm gonna enjoy it. I was nice enough to wait until the rest of you decided to head indoors, wasn't I?"

"Yes. And for that I thank you."

Cinnamon had stopped at the near edge of the patio to wait on Michael and Emily, and Debbye stopped as well, to speak to her. Lee went on inside.

… _**00:08 …**_

Conner grinned at her and flourished the cheroot. "You might actually like this one. It's apple flavored."

"No thanks."

… _**00:04 …**_

With a shrug he said, "Suit yourself. I won't be too long."

Michael was nearly back to the paved area, Emily in tow. Wendy took a step toward the house. "Okay. Your loss if you miss the …"

Their world erupted in light and sound.

##


	17. Chapter 5 Outcomes Part C

Chapter Five – Outcomes – Part C

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 6:19pm **_

Grosvenor's head whipped around at the sound of the explosion. "What the hell?" He pulled out his watch and read it. "It ain't fuckin' time yet! We got nearly half an hour to go! Most of the teams aren't even in position!" He turned and glared wildly at one of his subordinates, who was surveying the house through his binoculars. "Was that _our_ bomb?"

"Musta been, Niles. Ain't nothin' left of that kitchen."

"_Kitchen?_ **Damn!** What about … oh, shit!" He knew that the explosion was to be their signal to attack, and so even though he hadn't readied them for it, some of the teams might be deploying. He jumped up onto the big pine and pulled himself up far enough to see.

Sure enough, there they went. Rifle reports and automatic fire started registering on his ears, and he saw the patrol cop and the high-station observer slump over, and cursed again, loudly. "Whoever set off that bomb, I'm gonna skin him alive!" He jumped to the ground. "We'll have to make this as short and sharp as possible, before they get in touch with the cops. Move!" Grabbing up his own rifle, he quickly put several rounds into the transformer on the utility pole, nodding in satisfaction when it blew. It took another half-dozen to cut the phone line.

"Damn! What I wouldn't give for a jamming unit!"

##

In the bushes, Fred Hund flinched against the wall and barely kept himself from crying out. _It blew! Somebody got to it! Fantastic!_ But it hadn't been placed, the dinner hadn't started, and doubtless there were several of the enemy still alive. Then he spotted that breed-lovin' glorified lawyer, and allowed himself a tight smile. _Here's lookin' at you, Truefoot. _ He stood, drew a bead, and fired.

##

Conner's first reaction after shaking off the effects of the explosion was dead on the money. _We are under attack! Get non-combatants inside!_ He pushed Henry towards the house, then turned to where Michael and Emily were standing in total shock, preparing to sprint to them. But his peripheral vision caught a movement where none should be. His head snapped back around to zero on the dark figure against the side of the house, just in time to catch the muzzle flash. Michael cried out and stumbled, clutching at his shoulder. Emily screamed. And Conner von Trapp, the fastest and most accurate 'gunslinger' the nation had seen in some time, whipped out his .454 and took care of their immediate problem.

##

The south team knew that the explosion was the signal for the mop-up operation. They had been briefed that some, perhaps several, of the targets might not be killed in the initial blast, and it would be their job to see that nothing in the house lived. But the explosion came early, and in the wrong place, and it was obvious that many of them were still alive. The team leader made his decision quickly, and ordered his three gunners to open fire.

One of them aimed for the agent in the driveway. The other two went for the group around the patio. The double streams of slugs raked the area from side to side, catching all of them but Conner, who had ducked behind the chimney of the barbecue. He swung out and returned fire, being rewarded with a pair of screams from up the hill.

##

Lee, standing just inside the door, recovered almost as soon as the sound of the explosion began to fade. "It's a raid! Get everyone to the center of the house!" He saw that Conner, Emily, and Michael were still a ways out, and opened the door to call to them. The pistol report, and Michael's falling to his knees, confirmed his worst fears. He saw Conner draw and fire in one well-oiled, flickering motion. But then hostile fire from another quarter began to pepper the area.

Debbye had whirled and run for the house, but Cinnamon seemed frozen. She watched, open-mouthed, as Michael fell. Then the sleeting fire came their way, sending chips of rock and shattered bullets flying like shrapnel. Lee could only look on in horror as both femmes fell to the ground, tiny drops of red coloring the flagstones.

He leaped out to them, grabbed an arm in each paw, and tugged. To his untold relief, they both regained their feet and ran with him. He shouted, "Conner! Up on the hill!" and then got the women inside as the wolf was returning fire.

##

Michael, although his shoulder shrieked at him, tried to gather Emily in close to protect her from danger. But when the automatics opened up on them, she panicked, struggled free and ran for the house, only to fall with a shrill cry a couple of meters away. As he heaved to his feet, something hit him hard in his lower back, then again a little higher, knocking him off balance. But Conner shot back, temporarily turning off the torrent of lead, and giving him a chance to collect Emily and run to the house. Conner had a gun in each paw and was taking regular shots at the hill. Then, in another few seconds, he was joined by the two agents that had come with the Lieutenant Governor, and they blazed away with their riot guns in the same direction. Another scream, and then another was heard, the automatic fire stopped, and the two cats helped get everyone inside. When he got to the door, Michael could see that Emily was covered in blood, but he couldn't tell whose it was. An instant later, Conner dragged Henry Proso in after him. Then they beat it to the game room in the center of the house.

##

"Debbye! Sweetheart! Where are you hit?"

Wincing, she whispered, "My back. And, uh, my leg. I think."

Lee helped her to sit forward, and his breath hissed inward when he saw that the back of her dress was in tatters. Carefully, he unzipped it and examined her. There were several places where she was bleeding a little, and using a claw, he removed a tiny piece of rock from one of them. "Looks like you caught some shrapnel, Honey." He poked at another spot and shortly produced a jagged piece of lead.

"Mmfmm. Hurts."

"I'm sorry! Let me get a washcloth and some water …"

"No!" She grabbed his arm to stop him and looked him in the eye. "Lee, go get the guns. I can tell I'm not really …" And here, she drew a couple of quick, pained breaths. "… not really hurt, not badly. It's just a few cuts. And we need to be able to defend ourselves. There's no telling how many of them are out there."

Lee was deeply torn. He felt compelled to stay with his wife. But her logic was unassailable. He glanced toward the door, then back to his injured wife.

She grunted, "Go!"

He sprinted for the closet by the foyer.

##

Lucia Proso had run for the patio when the explosion sounded, looking for her husband, but one of the special agents herded her into the gameroom and closed the door with a gruff, "We'll get him. Be right back." It was a tense half-minute before the door opened again, and the sights that met her eyes did nothing to calm her.

"Where's Henry?"

Sabrina looked over at her. "What?"

"_Where's my husband?"_

Conner looked up from where he was helping a frantic Cinnamon tend to Emily and volunteered, "I pulled him inside. He was standing not too far from me, and fell when the shooting started."

"_**Where is he?"**_

He was not to be seen in the room. Lucia bolted through the door, Conner hot on her heels.

The Service agents and one of the Troopers had fanned out in the house and were firing from three sides. The returning fire was loud where it was hitting the sides of the house, and periodically breaking windows.

"I left him on the floor there by the hall … yeah, there he is." The raccoon lay on his back, his feet pointed their way. Lucia ran to him and dropped to her knees beside him. She couldn't see any blood. "Is he hurt? Did he get shot?"

"I don't know. I just …" Conner, standing, had a different angle of view. _Oh, crap! Oh, no!_ "Uh, Miz Proso? Maybe you'd better go back to the room and let me carry him in."

She caught the strained tone in his voice and frantically felt for a pulse. "Henry!" She moved up and made to lift his head, but . . . . . the part of his head behind his ears was gone. Her paw met no resistance, and she jerked it back, staring in shock at the gore covering her palm and fingers. Almost inaudibly, she whispered, "Henry."

"Miz Proso, we'd better get back to the gameroom. We're too close to the line of fire here."

She didn't answer him. She kept looking numbly from her paw to her husband's face. Conner had to pick her up bodily and carry her back. He set her down against one of the walls, where she sat, unresponsive, staring off into space. Then he brought Henry Proso's body in and laid him down beside her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't stay."

She didn't answer him. She simply stared at her dead mate. With a deep sigh, Conner went out to help the officers.

##

As Lee edged around the corner and peered through the remaining shards of the big, glass-paneled door out into the gloaming, he couldn't shake the image of his beloved wife's strained countenance, or of the red mess that was her back. Seeing no activity, he raced to the closet, flung its door open, and jumped in. When no shots came his way, he relaxed marginally. He reached up and got their gun cases off the shelf, looked around to see whether there was anything else in there he might use (there wasn't), and slowly swung the door open to a right angle with the wall. Still no shots. Using the open door as concealment, he ran around to the near hall and back to the gameroom, passing the one remaining Trooper as that fur sprinted for the front of the house.

The law-fur called over his shoulder, "Sir, you need to stay put. We'll take care of this."

Lee noted the nearly constant noise of the automatic weapons outside. _No offense, mister, but I think you might be outgunned._ He swerved into the open door and stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by the scene.

Debbye sat slumped near the wall where he'd left her. Twin tracks of dampness marred the fur below her closed eyes.

Lucia Proso had collapsed over her husband's body and was crying into the fabric of his shirt. He had evidently died instantly, as there was no bleeding from his massive head wound.

Samantha was sobbing quietly in one corner. Daren sat beside her, shivering, and Martin squatted in front of her. He was speaking to her, but in too low a tone to hear.

Chris and Sabrina were helping Cinnamon work on Emily. The little girl was unconscious, and they were still trying to determine the extent of her wounds. Cinnamon bled freely from a long scratch on her forehead, and Sabrina kept trying to get her to hold still so she could tape it closed. But Cinnamon was being very single-minded in her task, ignoring everything except her child.

Wendy had made Michael lie down on his stomach so she could see the damage to his back and shoulder, and the shock on her face when she looked up and met Lee's gaze disturbed him badly. She bit her lip, and motioned him over.

He mouthed, "Hang on," and rushed to his wife. "Here. I brought your pistol."

"Are the shrouds in there?"

"I think so." He pulled the foam away. "Yes. Right here." He drew them out and shook them, the silky and nearly indestructible fabric falling out perfectly straight.

"Help me out of this dress."

"What? Here?"

"This is no time to be a prude. Anyway, I'm wearing a bra."

Lee complied with her request, but as soon as he started trying to cleanse her wounds, she stopped him. "No! Go shoot something! I'll be fine. I can get this on myself." She passed his own shroud to him. "Better put this on."

"Lee," Wendy called. "Will you come here please!"

Debbye patted his cheek. "Better go see what she wants."

Lee was stressing. He couldn't bear to see the love of his life in pain. But he took a deep breath, slipped the shroud over his head, walked over to Wendy and asked, "What do you need?"

She pointed to Michael's back and said, "Look."

There were two entry wounds, both several centimeters to the right of the spine.

Lee laid a paw on the bear's good shoulder. "Michael, how you feeling?"

"Won't lie to you, son. I've felt better."

"Have you ever been shot before?"

"Once. Long time ago. In the leg." He grimaced. "This hurts more. Lot more."

"Can you breathe okay?"

"It hurts to take a deep breath, but if you're … uh … _huff_ … asking whether I took one in the lung … I don't think so."

Lee motioned for Wendy to move the cloths she was using to keep pressure on the wounds. The lower one had reacted well to pressure, but he didn't like the way the upper hole kept leaking blood. It wasn't spurting, so it was probably not arterial. But it was altogether too close to some pretty vital organs for Lee's comfort.

"Just keep pressure on it, Wendy. It's all we can do right now. Hopefully the paramedics will be on the way soon, and the police. We just need …"

Emily regained consciousness at that point and started screaming. Lee ran over to her. "Where's she hurt?"

Cinnamon was crying continually, and kept whispering, "My baby! My baby!"

"_Huuuuurts_, Mommy! M' weg _huuuuuurts_! Make it stop! _Pweeeease_! _Mommmmmy_!"

Cinnamon turned her blood-soaked face up to Lee. "Who would do this to a child? What kind of monsters are they?"

Emily screamed. Again and again.

Lucia's heartbroken lament was gathering steam. She looked up at Lee and sobbed, "He's dead! Henry's dead! He's dead!" She kept repeating it like a mantra.

Wendy had gotten Michael to turn over onto his left side, to try to elevate the wound a little, and he groaned in deep pain.

Conner dashed back into the room. "Hey, Lee, buddy, we could use your help."

Debbye called, "Just go! We'll be okay."

"_Mommmmmeeeeee! … "_

"Dead! Dead! Dead! …"

"Will you get out of here? …"

"My baby! …"

"Come _on_, Lee! …"

_**[ It would not be fair, Gentle Reader, to say that something snapped in Lee's mind. No. **_

_**A more accurate description would be to say that something coalesced. Something gelled. Something came to rectification. Something that had only affected him twice in the past, under equally parlous conditions.**_

_**This was in no way any sort of dread or terror. His heart rate actually toned down. His gaze cleared and leveled, and his muzzle settled into a frosty line. **_

_**There was nothing about panic in that face. No. **_

_**It was **__**all**__** about cold determination. ]**_

The lean cat strode purposefully past Cinnamon and toward the big wolf. Debbye caught the change in his expression and called to him. He turned a hard eye her way, said, "I'll be back," and left, sliding around Conner like a current of air.

The wolf was more than a little taken aback by Lee's near-transfiguration. He looked over at Debbye. "He gonna be okay?"

She levered herself up and came to stand next to him, a little unsteady on her feet. "I … I think so." _That look on his face! I haven't seen __that__ look since he rescued me from the kidnappers! _ "I hope so." She turned and stared Conner in the eye. "But I can guarantee you that there are some furs outside who soon won't be." She went back over to her gun case, took out the two boxes of shells and the pistol, and came back. "Let's go."

"Let's go? What do you mean, 'let's go'? Where do you think you're …"

She poked him in the gut, cutting off his sentence. "You need help, I'll help. Lee's going outside. I'm not. I'm just as good a shot as he is, maybe better. So lead the way."

"Uh … sure. Come on." _What a weird couple of furs._

##

Lee slipped through the bushes, a shadow among its many brothers. He'd calculated that the group that had fired on the patio would have pulled back, assuming any of them lived, and so he'd chosen that path into the woods. He paused only a few seconds to survey the scene when he got there: two dead pumas and a trail of blood leading away to the east. He followed it at speed, his eyes luminous in the fading light, nose flared, sharp ears pricked forward, collecting information, and processing it at a ferocious rate.

The gunfire from the opposite hill pinpointed his foes nicely. They were spread out in a loose array of four groups, one almost due north of his present position, one to the east of them, and two to the west. His current quarry had turned north to skirt the edge of the extensive lawn. Lee knew they had at most about a three minute lead on him, probably less, and at least one of them was bleeding heavily.

Crackling! _A step? Yes, and another._ He slid along noiselessly, near the ground, tracking with every sense. There! Two furs, one leaning heavily on the other. As he watched, the worse off of the two slumped to the ground. The other tried to get him going, tried hauling him back to his feet. But he couldn't keep him there.

"Come on, Fallon, only another half a klick! You can make it."

His companion, whose left arm was missing below the elbow, wasn't going anywhere on his own. The standing one cursed, loudly, and began pulling off the other's assault rifle. Lee moved around to the east and closed in. At a distance of four meters, he drew his pistol and stood, flipped the safety off and said, "Stand still."

The purist froze.

"Drop your weapon."

The canid hazarded a glance over his shoulder: feline, looked like a hybrid, holding a pawgun … at his side! _He's not even aiming at me!_ Figuring this to be his only chance for a shot, he spun and swung his weapon up.

Lee's slug took him in the throat, destroying the larynx and smashing the fifth cervical vertebra. The purist crumpled in a heap on the damp ground. Lee considered taking one of the automatics, but decided quickly that stealth would be a superior weapon, and the rifle would only get in his way. He melted back into the undergrowth.

##


	18. Chapter 5 Outcomes Part D

**_Chapter Five – Outcomes – Part D_**

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. . .

. . .

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 6:27pm **_

Debbye decided very quickly that she didn't care much for being a target. It was loud, dirty, and you had to work with the lights off. And besides that, it was playing hell with her hair.

Funny, the thoughts that can run through one's head in times of great stress.

One of the Service agents had taken a hit in his upper right arm, breaking the bone. Debbye got him set up in the gameroom and scurried back to where Conner had taken up his slack.

He checked his weapon, and fished out a box of shells. "Runnin' low on ammo." His comment was made in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"You don't ever get really frightened, do you?"

"Nope. I figure I prob'ly wouldn't operate as well runnin' scared. Wouldn't be much use in that."

"How many do you have left?"

"Ten for the Ruger. Thirty for the Lady."

"Michael has a gun cabinet, you know."

"He does? What the hell are we sittin' here jawin' for? Let's see what he's got!"

They ran back to Michael's study. The case had a glass front, so Conner didn't bother looking for a key. "Don't know how much good most of these will do. He's into shotguns." Snorting in disgust, he added, "Bird guns. Four-tens."

"They'll help if those bas … uh, the bad guys get in the house."

Conner grinned at her near-lapse. "You can call 'em anything you like, far as I'm concerned."

She gathered up an armload of the shotguns. "Let's get these distributed, shall we?"

Conner got the lone carbine and a bolt-action .22 and followed her. They dropped off most of the weapons at the gameroom, retaining the two rifles and one shotgun for their personal use, and hotfooted it back to the main room.

The tall wolf's practiced ear registered that fact that some of the automatic fire was closer than it had been. The slugs streaked through the broken windows almost without a pause. "Damn! We won't last much longer at this rate." He noted the bullet-hole patterns on the far wall and picked a spot between them, peering out quickly and ducking back down. "There's some right at the edge of the yard over there." He pulled the Lady, held it by his side for a couple of seconds while gauging the enemy's rate of fire, then popped up and took two quick shots. The jarring noise of slugs hitting the wood slacked off noticeably. "Well, either I got one, or I got close enough to get their attention. Either way, we're gonna need something with a little more ummph."

"What did you have in mind?" She copied his earlier move, sighting on a stray muzzle flash, but as she fired, one of them caught her in the left side. She fell over with a strangled cry.

"Debbye! You hit?"

"Hit, yes," she responded through gritted teeth. "Punctured, no. Shroud stopped it."

"I'll bet that smarts, though."

She rubbed her aching side ruefully. "Something like that, yeah." _Feels like a roundhouse kick, is what it feels like._

"I've got something out in my truck that would do the trick."

"It might as well be in California, then. They'll carve you up before you get halfway there."

He listened to the gunfire for a moment. "Maybe. Maybe not. You hear that?"

"I hear a lot of ringing in my ears. What do you hear?"

"One of the groups isn't shooting any more." He scooted them around to the left of the window and pointed. "Up there. The eastern-most bunch. They've been pounding away right regular, but now, nothin'."

"And? This means what?"

"I think it means your main squeeze got to 'em. That, or they ran out of ammo. Either way, I'm going. Now." And he crouched to cross the room.

"Hang on."

"What?"

Debbye whipped off the shroud and tossed it to Conner. "Here. You'll need that."

The big wolf quirked an eyebrow at her. "What are _you_ gonna do for protection?"

"Keep my head down. You're the one who'll be in the open, remember?"

Conner slipped on the silky armor, noting with some concern how she was favoring her side. _That girl's hurting more than she lets on. _ "You keep me covered and it won't matter, will it?"

"I'll see what I can do." She checked the magazine of the Model 1911 and nodded. "You just stay low."

##

Lee had gained the northern slope.

He paused for a second and re-evaluated the enemy. _Four groups. Four or five operatives in each location. At least three fully automatic rifles per group._

He moved in on the first group by arcing around and approaching from up the hill. At about ten meters, he stopped and observed them.

_Four gunners. Wolf. Weasel. Lion. Fox. Three with automatics in a tight grouping. Wolf with a sniper rifle four meters to the right and slightly behind. No one wearing ear protection: all will have impaired hearing at this point. The next nearest enemy group is no closer than one hundred and twenty meters, and out of line-of-sight._

_First target identified._

He timed his rush for when the machine-gunners were firing, and hurtled down on the sniper. One sweeping strike to the top of the wolf's head clove his skull to the teeth, and then Lee fell among the rest, a self-aware, animated scythe. In his current mental state, they seemed to him to be moving in slow motion. The nearest dropped silently, his neck severed, before the other two were even aware of the danger. They both began turning, but Lee flung his knife into the right eye of the next in line even as he rocketed into the fox with a vicious forward kick to the center of the chest. His eyes bugging in ultimate distress, the fox fell gasping to the ground and writhed in brief agony before his burst heart filled with blood and stopped.

Lee retrieved his knife, wiped it off on one of the corpses, sheathed it, and faded back into the wood, heading west.

##

Conner was secretly impressed with how well Debbye was maintaining her calm demeanor in the face of Lee's – well – recent transformation. He still wasn't sure what to make of it. It was almost as if the Maine Coon Cat had been possessed by one of his feral forebears; one of the more violent ones.

Conner carefully slipped over and eased open the heavy door to the garden about a centimeter, then went into the next room and dropped out the window beside the HVAC unit. He slithered along behind the bushes until he got as close to where the vehicles were parked as he could. He only had to wait another half minute before Debbye opened up. Apparently she got lucky, too. On the third shot, Conner heard an agonized scream from the hill. Instantly he dashed toward his truck, making it across the eight or nine meters without drawing any fire whatsoever.

_Thank __**you**__, little lady!_

The purists opened up and started hammering away at the house in earnest. Not for the first time that night did he thank whatever Providence watched out for him that Michael had chosen to build a Swedish-cope log cabin. Those half-meter-thick spruce walls could absorb one hell of a lot of bullets. He crouched beside his truck as he worked the lock on the fold-down compartment. He couldn't remember whether he'd stowed it on this side or the other, and nearly crowed with delight when the long case was revealed. Quickly he removed it, held it in both arms, and made a mad dash for the patio. A stream of automatic fire followed him, tearing up the shrubs along the edge of the patio, but he got to the door without getting hit once.

He nearly chuckled as he thought,_ Amateurs!_

Conner darted in the open door, and Debbye slammed it shut behind him. The tall wolf paused to catch his breath, then laid the case on the floor and opened it.

The squirrel's eyes popped. "Holeee! … That's – that's a Kruvetsky rail gun! Lee showed me an article on that thing!"

"Betcher sweet ass." He began assembling the bulky weapon. "Ol' Karl ain't the only one who likes his high-tech toys. Pass me that locpak, wouldja? No, the other one. Yeah, that one. Thanks." He rammed home the ammunition magazine and thumbed the power switch, bringing on a brief, ultrasonic whine that set Debbye's teeth on edge. Then he looked up at her with an evil grin. "Let's rock & roll."

"Just be sure you don't hit Lee with that thing. His impact shroud wouldn't do him much good, even if it is made of woven buckytubes."

He gave her a look. "Ma'am, I know when Lee left, and approximately where he was headed. Let me get my IR gear on, and I'll locate him. Then I'll just concentrate on the rest of the field."

"Fine. As long as you don't hit my husband."

"Don't you get it? I'm trying to save his life!"

"… What?"

"He's gone out there by himself, against what I figure to be at least a dozen heavily armed lunatics, and if he _wasn't_ berserk when he ran out of here, it'll sure as hell _do_ till the real thing comes along. I don't give him much chance unless I can even up the odds for him."

"Oh. I see." She had a much better idea than Conner did of just what sort of state Lee was in, and frankly, she thought his chances to be better than that. A _lot_ better. Nevertheless, she was slightly embarrassed at her lack of tact. "Sorry. Maybe I should just leave you alone."

"No, I think you better stick with me." He finished setting up the weapon and moved around until he could see out. "Just in case one of 'em gets close while I'm drawing a bead on the ones on the hill. You're pretty good with that pistol."

Wendy stuck her head out of the door to the game room and called, "I can't get the bleeding stopped!"

"What bleeding?" asked Debbye.

"Michael's!"

"Where's Cinnamon?"

"Still working on Emily, I think."

"Can't Lucia help?"

"I can't get her away from her husband's body!" Wendy's voice betrayed just how close to the edge she was herself. "She's just sitting there against the wall, holding what's left of his head in her lap and humming lullabies!"

Debbye was fairly strict about watching her language, but this situation was tempting her sorely. "What about Martin?"

"I don't know where he is! Him or any of the Foxxes! Last I saw, he was pulling Samantha out toward the garage, and the rest of them were following him, but I haven't heard anything from them in a while!"

She _did_ swear then. "Conner, looks like you're on your own till I can find them."

He shrugged. "I'll kill as many as I can, then." He chuckled quietly. "Y'know, under different circumstances this'd be a hoot. Those yahoos out there have lived _waaay_ too long, you ask me."

Wendy stopped and stared at him. "Getting a little bloodthirsty, are we?"

"Bloodthirsty? You kiddin'? You know how many corks I've popped? Get real, girl!" And he trained his scope on the hillside.

"How's that again?"

"That's what I did. I'm the best sniper Force Recon ever had. Now hush and let me get back to my card game. I've got a little retribution to deal out."

Sabrina came back into the room at that moment, with Chris leaning on her. "Wendy! Give me a paw with Chris! He cut his leg open on a gas can!"

"Damn! How'd that happen?"

"We've been helping Martin."

_As if that explains everything!_ She nodded to Debbye. "See what you can do for Michael. I'll help with this." She trotted toward the kitchenette.

"Okay." And the squirrel femme bounded down the hall into the game room.

Conner squeezed off a few shots. The projectiles made a weird, staccato ripping sound, loud in the confines of the room, and Conner chuckled, singing to himself, "One little, two little, three little scumbags …"

##

Lee paused, about halfway to his goal. He'd heard the odd series of reports, and waited a bit to see if more came. They did, in about thirty seconds, and he identified the sounds as micro-booms, which meant that the projectiles were quite small, and traveling at hypersonic speeds.

_Rail gun._

How those in the house had gotten their paws on one, he didn't know. But he knew it would even things up. As he continued on his way to the next target, he used a corner of his mind to go over the different ways he could use this information to his advantage. Nor did it detract at all from his disturbingly high level of alertness and mental acuity.

##

There was a shuddering **FOON** sound from the other end of the house. They all jerked or gasped.

Wendy bounced back out of the kitchenette, and Conner jumped up, yelling, "What the fuck was that?"

There was a faint, muffled yell from outside. Chris laughed, and Conner rounded on him. The fox said, "Don't worry about it, man. That was just Martin's mortar going off."

" … The _hell_ you talkin' about?"

"We've been helping Martin build a mortar. He figured it might be good to have if they try to rush the house, and we thought it sounded like a good idea, so we…."

"What in the name of perdition did he find to build a _mortar_ out of?"

"Pipe from the washer drain."

"… But … how …"

Sabrina added, "He's found some aerosol cans to fire the thing. Spray paint, I think. Or maybe it's bug spray."

"Yep. And he made some goop that works like napalm out of gasoline and soap, and put it in some baby-food jars we dug out of a shelf."

A fresh round of automatic fire sprayed their side of the house, causing everyone to hunch down on the floor. Conner said, "Excuse me for a minute. Got some furs need killin'. Wendy, why don't you go see if Mr. 'MacGuyver' O'Musca out there needs any help?" And he got back behind his rail gun. Sighting again, he chuckled, "Damn fools sittin' up there in pairs, blazin' away. Just like ducks down a well …"

Wendy slowed down when she got to the garage door and peeked around the corner. Samantha and Daren, each armed with one of the shotguns from Michael's gun cabinet, were at windows on opposite corners of the large room, watching the forest some hundred meters off, where it angled up the mountain on the other side of the road. Martin stood in the center next to a large contraption that gave Wendy a sudden, unexpected fit of the grins. He had mounted the two-meter section of pipe on a large, wooden sawhorse, and held it fast with several tire chains. A shoe rack had been screwed to the 'front', on which the business end of the pipe could be rested at four different heights, changing the angle of fire. The butt-end of a fireplace-size butane lighter stuck out the side of a 'T' fitting near the back of the pipe, held there by a huge wad of duct tape.

Daren yelled, "There's two of 'em comin' toward the driveway!"

Martin quickly pushed the glorified potato gun over to that window. He repositioned the barrel down one notch, threw a chain hook (that Wendy had not noticed) over the sill, pulled the sawhorse back until the chain was taut, and held the nozzle of an aerosol can against a tiny hole in the breech of the pipe. After four seconds, he pressed the safety on the lighter, and squeezed the trigger. The report reverberated around the big, empty room, the barrel of the improvised weapon jerking upward, bringing the front feet of the sawhorse off the concrete. Trailing a thin stream of fire, the projectile flew up and out some thirty meters, landing with an explosion right in front of one of the furs that had been sneaking their way. Wendy heard his shriek as he was splashed with the napalm-like mixture. Covered in flames, he ran only a few meters before falling to the ground and struggling for a moment as Wendy watched in fascinated horror. The volatile stuff continued to burn after he had stopped moving.

She then noticed where Martin's first shot had landed, around the other corner. The flames had spread out some, licking toward the forest, but without much enthusiasm due to the short, wet grass.

"Did you get anyone with that one?"

"No, ma'am. Didn' have me range on that first shot, an' fell woeful short."

Daren volunteered, "Scared the piss out of him, though!"

"Daren!" objected his sister. "Don't say 'piss'. It isn't nice."

"Huh. I'll bet you anything you wanna bet that guy's gonna have to change his pants. It didn't really miss 'im by much, and he looked like he was trying for the Olympic sprint team, getting back to the woods."

Wendy couldn't help but admire the pluck and ingenuity these youngsters showed. "How many of those things do you have?"

Samantha replied proudly, "We made up thirty-seven of the jar bombs, so we have thirty-five left. And we can make some more if we have to."

"Aye, an' we got eight more cans. I figger there t' be maybe six good shots in each."

"Why did you bother with building that if you already have shotguns?" And she indicated the firearms with a nod.

"Because nary o' the three of us be any account wi' the blamed things. I've nivver shot one before, nor has Sam. Daren has only used a .22. I figgered, an' we had the stuff, we'd jist as lief knock together somethin' tha' didn' take an expert t' aim. Then th' scatterguns would be good if one o' them out there made it in close."

Wendy was amazed. _This kid can really think on his feet!_ "Well, if you have some to spare, and it sounds like you do, why don't you just shoot off a dozen or so and make a fire perimeter?"

"Hey!" said Daren. "That's a great idea!"

Martin and Samantha were in agreement, and they began doing just that, aiming for maximum range. In three minutes, they had launched twelve bombs, and had a quarter-circle of merry blazes lighting up the extensive yard on the southeast side of the house.

"Tha' was a good thought, ma'am. Now if they try sneakin' up, they'll stand out against the fire."

"Yes. Assuming they can get past it. You're pretty accurate with that thing!"

"Thankee, ma'am."

"It's 'Wendy'!"

"Yes'm."

She sighed, deciding to drop the subject. "You know, you didn't have to do this. I'm awfully glad you did, but you didn't have to."

"Well. I suppose. But I jist couldna see sittin' around, twiddlin' me thumbs when we could be about shorin' up the defense, don' ye see?"

Wendy regarded him soberly. "You're a good fur, Martin." Giving Samantha a knowing smile, she said, "I wouldn't throw this one back, if I were you."

The young vixen was prouder of Martin than any of the others. She came over and appropriated his arm. "Don't worry!"

"Well, you guys seem to have this front covered, so I'm going back to help the others."

"We'll keep a good watch, Aunt Wendy!" said Samantha. Then she realized that she wasn't watching at all, let go of Martin's arm and hurried back to her window.

##


	19. Chapter 5 Outcomes Part E

**_Chapter Five – Outcomes – Part E_**

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. . .

. . .

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 6:40pm **_

"Carver! You goddam bitch's get! Answer me!" Grosvenor was nearing his wits' end. Lyle's group, the insiders, had been silent since the explosion that had demolished the summer kitchen. Of his other five remote teams, the three that were spread out along this hill were not responding at all. The fourth, Traber's team, had been routed by that never-sufficiently-damned _cannon_ that had appeared from nowhere and started lobbing _napalm_! Traber was down, and likely dead, having caught the brunt of one of the bombs. Grosvenor had overheard Carver say something to the effect that they should get out while they could, and the big jaguar had ordered him to redouble the attack. Carver hadn't bothered answering.

Cursing non-stop, he switched to Gordon's frequency. "Gordon! Status report!"

Silence answered his call. The fifth team, supposedly stationed to the southeast of the house was not in evidence. They had engaged in a fierce, but short-lived, firefight with the State Service detail right at the start of things. Grosvenor hadn't heard from them since. He didn't know whether they'd bugged out or were all dead, but in either case his fury was mounting to towering levels.

Albert called, "Hey, Grove!"

He turned to his subordinate with a muffled curse. "What?"

"Eh … Maybe we oughta be gettin' some gone. Ain't nobody else left, best I can tell, and you can bet it won't be too long now, some cops'll start showin' up."

The big jaguar hissed at him and pointed down toward the house. "We Are Staying Right Here Until They Are All Dead."

"Uh … yeah. Whatever you say, Grove." He backed away from the near-feral light in his leader's eye, then sighted on the house and popped off a few more rounds. But his thoughts went more along the lines of, _The second you take your eyes off me, I'm outta here._ He caught Gregg's attention, motioning him to come over. When the hyena got there, Albert whispered, "You heard anything from any of the other teams in the last few minutes?"

Gregg shook his head. "I don't think there's much percentage in sticking around, either. Grove wanna get the hell out?"

"Unh-uh. I think he's about ready to just charge the place."

"Hell you say!"

"Ayah."

"I am _not_ down for that!"

"Me neither."

Grosvenor was muttering a string of baleful curses while taking careful shots at the big house. They watched him for a tense minute as they backed out of his presence. When there were a few trees between him and them, they sped up, then turned and fled. It was less than a klick back to the cars, and they planned to be gunning it down the road in five minutes.

However …

They had not gone very far when a rangy cat stepped out from behind a tree some six or seven meters away, and faced them square on. Albert gasped, Gregg managed a short curse, and they brought their weapons up in his direction. But both of his arms whipped forward, the knives flashing in quick, underpawed throws. One slipped between Gregg's fourth and fifth ribs a centimeter to the right of the sternum, doubling him up on the ground in agony. The other caught Albert just below the jaw line, severing the common carotid artery in a shower of vital fluid.

Unmoving and unmoved, Lee watched them for a several seconds. The one he'd nailed in the neck had grabbed the hilt and pulled it out, which only served to speed up his exsanguination. He lost consciousness almost immediately. The other was still moaning, and had begun to cough up blood. Lee surveyed the surrounding forest closely for a few moments, then walked up to him carefully, kicked the rifle away, knelt, and pulled out the knife. The wound bubbled and squirted briefly. The mortally injured fur gave a last, racking cough, spraying red over the damp leaves, and lay still.

Lee used a corner of the dead fur's coat to clean off his knife, sheathed it, repeated the process with the other fur, and melted back into the forest, heading for the crest of the hill. His eye was clear and cold, his jaw rock-steady, his heart rate less than seventy beats per minute.

##

Grosvenor emptied the magazine of his rifle, ejected it, and reached around for a replacement. He noticed the silence, and then the fact that he seemed to be alone in this war.

"Gregg? Al? Where'd you go?" He peered around at the trees, but could see no one. Quickly, he grabbed a fresh magazine and slammed it home. He'd caught the scent of fresh blood, and something else.

It was more instinct than any other sense that caused him to whirl and focus on the cat that had appeared behind him. But it was much too late. The cat fired his pistol, and Grosvenor's rifle went spinning. He jerked back, clenching and rubbing his smarting right paw.

Lee walked slowly up to within six meters, took aim, and blew the pawgun off Grosvenor's hip. The jaguar spun around, nearly losing his balance, and stared at the smaller cat incredulously. Lee fired twice more, permanently disabling both of Grosvenor's firearms. Then he very deliberately held the weapon out in front, removed the bullets, which he placed in a pocket, and laid it on the ground.

Grosvenor couldn't believe his eyes! His heart swelling in anticipation, he said, "So, what is this? Unarmed duel to the death?"

Lee drew his long, blue knife and held it at his side. His voice as frigid as a polar dawn, he responded, "I know you have one. Pull it."

The bigger cat yanked his military-style bowie from its sheath. He crowed, "Tonight you die, scumbreed! Right here, right now!"

"Bring it on." The absolute calm in that measured response should have warned Grosvenor, but he missed it.

The jaguar took a couple of steps forward, and tried out a taunt. "This time you face a master! Not someone who you can stab in the back like the coward you are!"

Lee's ears plastered flat, he advanced one foot marginally as he replied, "You planted a bomb among innocents. Your forces murdered half a dozen officers of the law. You shot women and a six-year-old girl from cover. And now you have the gall to lecture me on honor?" He spat on the ground. "You're a useless waste of fur. You foul the earth with your very breath. You shame your species by your existence."

With an inarticulate scream the huge cat leaped, and the battle was joined.

Lee, rather than diving to either side, darted forward and rolled beneath the spotted form. His blade sliced open the front of Grosvenor's coverall and left a twenty-centimeter cut along his belly. In turn Lee received a deep prick to the base of his tail.

Both combatants dug in and turned, to clash again. In a blindingly fast flurry of sharp claws and sharper edges, the two slashed and stabbed and feinted and blocked, getting superficially scratched in a number of places. They sprang apart for a fractional second and came together from a different angle.

Lee took a graze across the back of his paw.

Grosvenor lost the whiskers on the left side of his face, and the tip of that ear.

The jaguar's blade arced in to strike at Lee's belly, but the agile feline twisted out of its way by the space of a few millimeters. The knife hung in the obdurate fabric of the shroud for an instant before Grosvenor could yank it free, allowing Lee a quick strike at the extended arm. The jaguar leaped backward, favoring that limb, blood spattering the thick carpet of leaves.

Lee had the measure of his foe now. A feral grin spread over the smaller cat's face. He pressed forward, redoubling his pace, giving the jaguar no respite, no room, his flashing blade a bright wall of mayhem. Grosvenor discovered quickly that he could not penetrate it. He had fancied himself the best knife-fighter in the eastern United States, and possibly the best in the country. But he'd never seen moves like these. His every thrust was blocked or parried, and the riposte that followed each left him with another leaking wound.

His arm ached abominably where Lee had stabbed it. He was getting tired … and desperate.

_Must run! Must escape!_

No, Niles Grosvenor was no coward. But neither was he an idiot, and he knew when he was outclassed. Expending most of his remaining reserves, he jumped back, breaking off contact momentarily, and leaped into one of the nearby trees. Clambering up out of reach of that maniacal feline below him, he jumped to one of the other trees and started making his way through the canopy as fast as he could.

Lee's blood was up. He could follow the jaguar's smell easily enough, and with the leaves all but gone, the bare branches offered but little cover for the fleeing murderer. He didn't know what the bigger cat had in mind, but he did know one thing: he was _not_ going to get away. He followed, keeping back a few paces and extracting a couple of shurriken from his belt.

##

Having finished what first aid she could on Emily's leg, Cinnamon insisted on taking over Michael's treatment, so Debbye had limped back out to the main room. The initial adrenaline rush was wearing off, and she was becoming very painfully aware of the depth and severity of the wounds on her back, as she sat by the wall. Her M1911 had never felt quite so heavy before.

"Hey, Debbye?"

The weary squirrel lifted her head, wincing a little at the pain. "You need something, Conner?"

"Your feller likely to take to the trees if he gets in trouble?"

"Uhh … that doesn't sound like him. I'd say not."

"Hmm." Conner had eliminated the enemy positions to the northwest, and had repositioned the rail gun. He put the crosshairs on the figure in the trees, then on the one on the ground, then back on the one in the trees. "I think Lee's doin' the chasin', and that other fella's doin' the haulin' ass."

"Are you dead sure?"

"Can't be dead sure at dusk. Not enough contrast for the regular sight, but still too much light for the IR to show any detail. Guy in the trees looks too bulky to be Lee, though."

"Well don't shoot unless you're sure." Wendy scooted back into the room then and stopped at the door to the kitchenette, bringing Sabrina the rest of the first aid supplies.

Conner gave her a snort. "Little lady, I've been doing this sort of thing going on twenty-five years. I think I know when to shoot and when not to."

The skunkette and the vixen looked at each other for a second, then got back to work on Chris. But Conner's words from before kept echoing in Wendy's head.

"_You know how many corks I've popped? Get real, girl!"_

Yes, if anything he seemed to be enjoying himself. It gave her a lot to chew on.

##

Grosvenor was beginning to fear that he'd never find what he was looking for. He was getting dizzy, a sure sign of blood loss, and he could feel the fur of his legs matting with his own vital fluid. He glanced back to check on that maniacal cat that had cut him, but either he'd lost the smaller feline, or he was sticking close to the shadows. That worried him. If he didn't know where his adversary was, the trap wouldn't work. He paused on a branch, breath heaving, and tried to keep the rest of the forest from spinning.

There!

Lee stepped forward into a clear patch. "You may as well come down now, and end this. Unless you'd rather bleed to death."

In answer, the jaguar sent a small throwing knife at Lee's head, and leaped to the next tree. Lee didn't even bother deflecting the flying blade, allowing it to pass him within centimeters. He was careful not to lose sight of his enemy.

Grosvenor made it through two more canopies and came to a tall, slender whip of a tree. In truth, it had not a single branch that looked as if it would support the big cat. But that wasn't what he had in mind. He leaped, and grabbed it near the top, allowing his weight to bend it far over. He was counting on the growing darkness to hide his movements, and intended push off a large neighboring tree, using the one he clung to as a spring. He would arc back over the smaller cat and land behind him, giving him enough time for one clear strike. With luck, the other would think he'd transferred to the bigger tree, and ignore the whistling return of the smaller one.

It was a decent plan, and likely would have worked against a normal fur. But in Lee's present state of heightened mental and sensory awareness it had no chance, and he decided that things had gone far enough. Grosvenor landed with an amazing display of agility, especially considering his woozy condition, and was just recovering and drawing back his knife for a throw when Lee's shurriken took him in the left knee. He screamed in agony and fell over on his side, clutching the leg.

Lee carefully skirted the fallen jaguar, to come at him straight on. The bigger cat would have less chance of executing a hidden move that way. But even in his pain, he tried a lunge at Lee, then tossed another small throwing knife. That one was wobbly, and Lee caught it easily.

"You're finished. Give it up."

The feral glow in Grosvenor's eyes, coupled with the growl deep in his chest, telegraphed that he was never going to accept that. He gritted his teeth and yanked the shurriken out, grunting at the effort.

"Are you going to _make_ me kill you?"

By sheer force of will, the jaguar regained his feet. Even in this less-than-half-light, Lee could see that the lower half of his body was covered with blood. He felt a momentary, grudging respect for so fine a specimen, but pushed it quickly aside as the bigger cat came at him.

From time to time for the rest of his life, Lee would ponder how Grosvenor could have done what he did next. He was _sure_ he'd incapacitated his foe. The post-mortem clearly showed that his shurriken had completely destroyed the cartilage in the front of that knee. It shouldn't have held any weight, for any length of time. But by all that was holy, Grosvenor ran – _**ran**_ – at Lee to try for a killing blow. And he almost succeeded in taking the cat by surprise. Lee caught and parried the strike, though, falling instantly into the form necessary to save his own life. And that form ended with a finishing move to the back of the neck.

He stood there for several minutes, re-centering, willing himself to relax. He gazed down at the prone form on the ground before him. A magnificent specimen. Likely one of the best examples of the species in this generation. Smart. Fast. Strong. And now very much deceased.

Lee gave his head a slight shake. "What a waste. What a damned, stupid waste." Then he wiped off his knife, slipped it back into its sheath, and started slowly down the hill toward Michael's house. He'd almost made it to the back door when the first faint moaning of the sirens reached his ears.

##

Michael was slipping in and out of consciousness by the time the paramedics got him into the ambulance. Cinnamon, with Emily on her hip, stuck to his side, and bared her teeth at anyone who suggested she move. She clambered in after the medical furs, muttering, "You hear me, Michael Truefoot? You are _not_ gonna die on me! I won't let you. You understand that? You are _not_ gonna die. … …"

Two more State Trooper cruisers pulled into the drive, which, despite its generous proportions, was getting awfully crowded. One of the troopers spotted Lee standing beside Debbye where the EMT was working on her back, and walked over.

"Well. You're still here. Still in the thick of things, too, it looks like."

Lee didn't bother to wave, merely responding, "Hello, Sergeant."

Paul Fellis gave the cat a quick up-and-down, noting his drawn face and the numerous bandages. "You sound tired, Mr. Evans."

"Closer to dead than tired."

The Sergeant knelt in front of Debbye. "How you holding up, ma'am?"

"Feel like I've gone six rounds with a cage of rabid – ouch! – rabid pumas."

"Sorry, ma'am," said the EMT. "Those are some pretty good contusions you got there."

She muttered, " 's okay" through gritted teeth.

Sergeant Fellis straightened back up. "I understand Niles Grosvenor is dead."

Lee nodded tiredly. "Word travels fast it seems."

"I'd like to go ahead and get your statement if I could. If you're not too pooped."

"Find me a chair, and we'll do it."

##


	20. Chapter 5 Outcomes Part F

**_Chapter Five – Outcomes – Part E_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 10:15pm **_

Since Conner had driven Wendy to the party (_"Party!" _she thought, _"What a misnomer. What a terrible, crushing irony."_) and since the officers of the law had several thousand questions for the big wolf (and very few for her beyond her initial statement) Wendy had accepted a ride from one of the Troopers. He wasn't the talkative sort, and she certainly didn't feel like it herself, as exhausted as she was, so most of the two-hour trip had passed in silence. She'd dozed off a couple of times, but the seat was uncomfortable enough to prevent her getting any decent rest. Consequently, she was awake when they got to the Inn.

What she was not prepared for was the bevy of vehicles in front of it.

Two police cruisers, lights flashing, sat near the main entrance. A television news van had parked on the grass in front of the porch, and the crew had set up lights. She could see at least two camerafurs. Behind the news van there was a dark sedan and a minivan. And on around the circle, well past all the activity, she saw a stretch limo. She began to tremble. That long, dark conveyance looked all too familiar.

The memory of her last conversation with Harry Capensis came rushing back. It was Thursday night. . . . . . .  
_"Thanks for the map, Miss Wylde."  
"Wendy."  
"Right. Wendy."  
"Don't worry about it. Just don't get lost. And get those little girls back here as quick as you can."  
"I will. We'll be back by Saturday for sure."  
"Okay. And you know where I hid that key for you?"  
"Under the third board to the left from the post nearest the back door."  
"Good. And don't let anybody see you. And don't tell anyone anything, and …"  
"I know, I know! And keep the kids out of sight. I think I can handle it."  
"Right. Sorry. I'll have that storeroom ready for you by tomorrow night, just in case."  
"Thank you, Wendy. This will literally save their lives. I don't know how I'll ever repay you, but …"  
"Pay-schmay. Not to worry." She had leaned over to give him a kiss on his cheek. "Be safe." And she had seen them to the door and watched as they drove off, that sad, old car belching a cloud of blue in its wake. The black van across the road had followed them after a prudent interval. . . . . . ._

Her paws gripping tightly into fists, she willed it not to be. But the cars were still there when she opened her eyes.

The Trooper glanced at her curiously. "You got any idea what this is all about?"

She hesitated for an instant. "N – n – no. It could be anything." _Oh please let it be anything but that!_

They parked under the porte-cochère and Wendy trotted around to the front of the house. She saw that the guests in the front suite were peering at the commotion from their window. One of the camerafurs pointed his equipment at her. His partner, an emaciated femme raccoon Wendy thought she vaguely recognized, hurried up and stuck a microphone in her face.

"Are you Miss Wendy Wylde, the owner of Ash Creek Inn?"

"I – uh – I am. That is, yes, I'm Wendy Wylde. What's going on? Who are you?"

"I'm Dana Fitch-Procyon with The Inside Scoop. Do you know Harry Capensis?"

"Hang on, lady! This is my house, I'll ask the questions. Now, why are you here?"

"To get the inside scoop on your relationship with Harry Capensis. Is it true you were lovers?"

Wendy's features hardened. "I have _nothing_ to say to _you_." She pushed past the anchor-femme and strode quickly to the front steps. A policefur stopped her.

"Ma'am, if you're the owner we'll have to ask you a few questions before you can go inside."

"This is _my_ bloody _house_! Do you seriously expect me to stay out of my own house?"

"Ma'am, the lieutenant …"

"To hell with the lieutenant! This is no police state! Who do you think you are?"

"_**Wendy!"**_

The vixen turned to see Ellen running at her. The slender mink grabbed her in a fierce hug. She had been crying. In fact, she still was. "Wendy, these people just showed up not half an hour ago! They had a search warrant and they ransacked the place and put all the guests in the library for a while and went through everyone's things and they just now found Mr. Capensis hiding in the attic and they _arrested_ him! Wendy, what the hell's going on?"

At that moment the front door opened and two uniformed officers escorted Harry Capensis onto the porch. Ellen released her and took a step back. Wendy's heart developed a thick casing of ice and dropped to somewhere south of her tail.

"Ha – Harry? What … ?"

He jerked loose from the officers and stumbled forward to fall on his knees in front of her. His paws were cuffed behind his back, and he barely managed not to pitch forward onto his face.

"I'm sorry! Please, Miss Wylde, please don't be angry!" The words spilled out of him in a babbling cascade of raw emotion. "I snuck back here! I thought we could hide in your attic for a while! The house is so big I never thought you'd notice us if we just kept out of sight and stayed quiet! I'm so sorry!" The nearest camera crew shoved forward to get a good shot of his face. The officers jerked him to his feet again, but he struggled to remain and say his piece. "I didn't mean for you to get any flack from this mess! Oh, this is all my fault! Please forgive me! I never meant any harm! I know it was wrong of me, 'specially since you were so kind to let us stay a couple days, a couple extra days. And then I took advantage of your hospitality. I hid food in your attic! I'm so sorry! I just wanted a safe place for my daughters, to keep them away from that monster! Please, Miss Wylde …" His eyes begged her not to say anything that would deny his ersatz confession.

"All right, bud, that's it. Come on." And they hustled him off to one of the cruisers. It was then that Wendy noticed the other four figures. Melody and Harmony were framed in the doorway, and behind them stood two adults. The girls had that shell-shocked look about them that children get when overloaded past their emotional limits. The quartet moved out onto the porch, the adults (two femmes, Wendy noted now) marching the pair down the steps and out to the minivan.

Miss Fitch-Procyon tried to get a statement from one of them, but they brushed her off. "Social Services. This is none of your business. These girls have already been through more than enough without you parading them all over the TV. Beat it." And they slammed the doors and quickly drove off.

Wendy was more than a little shocked herself. _What just happened? Did Harry do what I think he just did?_ But she was not to get any peace any time soon. Two of the policefurs "invited" her to go inside and chat for a bit. She was never certain exactly what she said to them over the next half hour, but apparently she was able to retain enough of her wits to back up Harry's story. Ellen was there, and they held each other's paws tightly. Wendy positively refused to speak to the Inside Scoop furs for any reason.

It was left to Ellen to get everybody out and away and gone. Wendy couldn't seem to think clearly.

_He's going to prison. I just know it._

_He took all the blame. And it wasn't even his idea! _

_Why did he do that?_

_Those poor little girls!_

_Edwards! That insufferable bastard!_

_Harry protected me. He didn't have to, but he protected me._

_Those damned vultures! They've got the gall, calling that piece of trash a news show. Reality TV my ass!_

_What will Social Services do? Can they protect the girls from Edwards? Or was Edwards the one who got them involved?_

_Harry sacrificed himself. For me._

_Why?_

_Why would he do that?_

_Why?_

Ellen came back and sat down across from the vixen, fatigue written across her features. Wendy didn't appear to notice.

"You want some coffee?"

She looked up, focusing on Ellen. "What?"

"Or tea. Either one. I'm gonna make myself some tea, I think. A nice chamomile, yeah, that's the trick." She got up and went to the stove, scooped up the tea kettle, and went to the sink to fill it. "How about some tea, there, boss-lady?"

"Okay. Whatever."

Ellen got the water on to boil and sat back down. "Tirumvirets left."

"Huh?"

"The Tirumvirets. Couple in the Fairy Tale suite. Said they came out here for relaxation, and it was anything but. Fussed about you not being here to run interference for the guests, but I'm damned if I know what you coulda done. Big, arrogant, fancy-pants police just waltzed in like they owned the place."

"They left? Now? In the middle of the night?"

Ellen nodded.

"Well, shit."

"Yeah. Bad press. What fun."

They didn't say anything else for a minute. Ellen heard the water start to perk up and went to the stove. Wendy heard only her own thoughts, and they weren't helping her to calm down.

_How does a nice, decent fellow like Harry Capensis get stuck with a pile of crap like that? And those girls! They sure didn't do anything to deserve this. And why does a midden heap like Edwards get to call the shots? It just isn't fair! Why hasn't somefur taken him apart before now? Edwards! Now, there's somebody who deserves punishment! He's just plain evil! I just know he's behind this. That was his limo, I know it!_

She was getting more worked up, if anything. She glanced up at the kitchen clock. _Damn._ _It's nearly eleven. Feels a lot later than that, though. Age must be catching up with me. Or something._

The phone rang, startling her out of her brown study. Ellen put down the kettle, stepped over and picked it up. "Hello? … Wendy? … Yeah, she's right here."

The vixen took the phone. "Yeah?"

There was a low sob on the other end, and Samantha said, "Aunt Wendy?"

"Samantha? What's wrong?"

"Mr. Truefoot's dead."

She didn't respond to that. Not verbally. All the blood seemed to drain out of her head, and her vision got a little fuzzy, but then it cleared back up. "Did you say that Michael was dead?"

"Yes. He – he died in surgery."

"But … what … he was talking! Right before the ambulances got there!"

"His heart just stopped. They th-think it might be a c-clot or … or something. They aren't … aren't sure yet."

"Is Cinnamon there?"

"Oh, Aunt Wendy! Cinnamon's in there with him! She won't leave! He's been dead for …" Wendy heard her move the phone away from her face and ask, "How long?"

Another voice in the background said something.

Samantha came back on. "For half an hour, maybe. She won't leave him!"

"Where's your mom?"

"With Dad. That cut on his leg was worse than we thought, and they have to stitch it."

Wendy heard a rustling on the other end, and Martin came on. "I'm that sorry we had t' be th' bearers o' sich ill-favored news. Th' doc said Mr. Truefoot didn' have much left uv his liver, an' what wi' the other wounds, well … His body jist shut down."

"Oh. Oh, my. That's … that's just … horrible. Poor Cinnamon!"

"Aye. The hand o' Providence be heavy this night, an' that's th' truth of it."

"Providence?" Wendy couldn't believe her ears. "You call this _providence_? This **sucks**!"

He didn't say anything for a moment. "It be hard to understand, that I'll grant."

"Understand? I don't fucking _want_ to 'understand' it! I don't want to have any _part_ of it!"

"Uhh …"

"You gonna stand there and tell me there's some kinda 'higher purpose', some sort of _good_ we're supposed to get out of this? Well _**SCREW THAT!**_" And she threw the phone across the room.

Ellen had had a bad night already, and this topped it off nicely. She stared silently at Wendy for a few seconds, then slowly picked up the pawset, replaced it on its cradle, burst into tears, and ran out of the room.

Wendy sat at the table, fuming, for another ten minutes. She didn't even notice the cups of tea Ellen had poured. _This is so stupid! So wrong! They were so good for each other! How could it happen? How could it be __allowed__ to happen?_ She recalled a PBS series from several years back about the families of those who were killed in the World Trade Center attack. Many, if not most of the survivors had not recovered very well, even ten years afterward. There had been suicides, addictions, and abuse as a result of the death of the significant mother/father/sibling. Oh, sure, some of them had managed to squeeze some lemonade from that holocaust, but they were in the minority. The author of the study had ended by quoting Josef Stalin ("One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic.") and taking the position that the staggering loss of life was _not_ merely a statistic, but rather was several thousand individual tragedies. The report had thrown Wendy into a depression for weeks. It was all so unfair. Why was such monstrous evil, such blatant enormity allowed in this world?

Her anger continued to mount.

_Michael's dead.  
Harry's as good as dead.  
His daughters are worse off than that.  
Cinnamon's lost her love.  
Emily's gonna have a limp, probably, the rest of her life.  
The Lieutenant Governor's husband is dead.  
How many cops did she say? Five? Six?  
And for what? Just because a bunch of morons don't like hybrids?  
And that Edwards character. He wins? He actually __wins__?  
__What the fuck is up with that, huh?_

When she could no longer stand her own stifling company, she jumped up and marched outside to try to clear her head. The bracingly cold air she had hoped would help to calm her down, instead only focused her anger. The weight of her fury was unbearable. She looked up at the sky with narrowed eyes and bared teeth.

"_**What's **__**wrong**__** with you?"**_

Her shout echoed faintly through the naked wood, but no answer came.

"_**Damn your frigid, flabby heart! Don't you care about ANYTHING?"**_

A light came on in one of the second-floor windows. She took a few more steps toward the forest.

"_**Answer me, dammit! You just let us **__**die**__**! You don't give a shit about **__**anybody**__**!**_

Silence. Stillness. Cold. The forest, the sky, the One whom she was addressing, all seemed infuriatingly indifferent to her anguish.

_**DAMN YOU! Just stay away from me, dammit! You can just go to hell! It's all you're good for! You're useless! **__**Useless**__**!**_

Her throat hurt from shouting.

_Useless!_

She picked up a rock and flung it into the trees with everything she had.

_I hate you!_

It ricocheted off a venerable oak with a dull thud. Three more rocks followed it in quick succession, and then she sank to her knees on the frozen ground, sobbing quietly.

_Hate you. _

_Hate you. _

_Hate you. _

_Damn you straight to hell._

_Damn you . . . . . . . _

Her hot tears didn't help. She crumpled over onto her side, gulping her breaths, and her thoughts strayed into territory she hadn't visited in a long, long time. _Daddy followed you, and you killed him. Mom followed you until you drove her away. And then you killed her, too. You really __don't__ care, do you? What's the point? And what do you want from me? Just what the bloody hell do you want from me?_

The unfeeling night wrapped her in a hush of frost, ignoring her lamentation. It was a long time before she got up, shivering, to stumble back inside.

##

. . .

. . .

. . .

* * *

**Hello, Gentle Reader. I would ask that you pause here for a brief reflection, mull over what you have learned of Wendy and her various predicaments, and leave a comment or three in the form of a review. There is a very handy button supplied for that purpose, and it is no more than an inch or so away. Kindly use it. I covet your input. Thank you! ~~Concolor44**


	21. Interlude  the  next

**_Interlude #5_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

I possess enough forethought to place the Portal's exit door near a public place. Karl's note to me about my own culpability in the late unpleasantness should have been written on reinforced ceramic, in high-molar hydrofluoric acid. How any fur could convey that much disgust without using the more vulgar pejoratives astonished me, but then his vocabulary is impressive.

I stop for a quick listen at the corner of the alley and then swing out into the light mid-morning foot traffic.

One of the things I like (one of several) about spending time on the furry end of the business is being able to use my enhanced senses. As a human I get roughly ninety-five percent of the information about my surroundings through my eyes, but that doesn't hold true when I manifest as a multi-mammalian mutt. It isn't just that my ears and nose are much more sensitive, although they are; it's that my brain, as a fur, is organized differently. The furry version of Montpelier has a terrific public library (it's a university town after all), and I took the time to go through some books on physiology just to be sure. Not only are the areas of the brain that are devoted to sound and smell significantly larger in the furry population, there is much more electrical activity there than in the corresponding part of the human brain. The extra information is processed and cross-indexed more effectively.

I revel in the experience! It's particularly nice in the springtime, but now, in the middle of autumn, is very pleasant, too. You human types think you can stop and smell the flowers? Wrong. You can't smell flowers. Trust me.

But, although I am comfortable with my wider range of hearing and keener nose, I am not expert in their use. I certainly don't have everyone's scent memorized. It would hardly be worth my while since I lose the odor-key every time I come back to Earth. So I can hardly be blamed for missing Karl's scent as I pass an alley a block away from the diner where I intend to meet him. I never even see his arm shoot out and grab the back of my coat.

I think congratulations are in order: I successfully refrain from wetting my pants.

A scant few (and certainly harrowing) seconds later, he deposits me on a flat rooftop, out of sight of the street. I do not stumble, but I do lean heavily against the ventilation duct behind me.

He stares at me with a healthy dose of contempt.

My foremost thought is: 'Hellfire and Damnation, but he is big!' I top out at a hundred and ninety-three centimeters, and mass a little over a hundred and ten kilos. He's well over a head taller and twice my mass. It is VERY intimidating. But I realize that is his goal, and control my reactions.

I straighten my coat. _You weren't very charitable in your letter._

**Do not screw with me, Mac.**

_Perish the thought! Never crossed my mind._

His muzzle gave the slightest of brief twists. **I only want you to carry away two things from this meeting.**

_And what would they be?_

**First, if you ever put her in that kind of danger again, and you do not include me in the scene, I will put you out of business.**

_Hah! As if you could._

That doesn't seem to phase him, and he doesn't bother arguing.

**Second, you know and I know that the AUTHOR can't be killed. Not by any of the characters, anyway.**

_Right. So why are you bothering to threaten me?_

He leans forward slightly.** Because, Mister AUTHOR, to plagiarize a line from a movie, you would be absolutely amazed at what can be done to someone without killing him.**

I am not at all sanguine about my safety at that moment. And I'm pretty sure he can tell that I'm sweating.

He nods. **Just remember those two things.** And he steps away and vaults backwards over the edge of the roof.

I don't move for a minute or two while waiting for my heart to slow down. I look around and quickly spot the ladder on the back side of the building, so I pad over and start climbing down, all the while thinking about Mary Shelley's little gothic novel, and the dilemma that the good Doctor found himself in as a result of his experimentation.

I discover that I have lost my appetite. I do not stay any longer than necessary to retrace my steps to the Portal.


End file.
